


IN VINO VERITAS (2015 EDIT)

by AndiiV



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Angst, Complete, Drama, Gen, Gen Work, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Season/Series 06, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndiiV/pseuds/AndiiV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A low-key job in Indiana goes sideways when Dean takes his eye off the ball and pays a heavy price. Injured, captured and sold for hard cash, does he even want to know what else is coming down the pipe?</p>
<p>Set Season 6, after Like a Virgin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I first published this story in chapters throughout summer 2014. Since then it's undergone a pretty extensive edit so I'm posting again. Even if you've read it before, I hope it reads slightly better now.

It was the pounding in his head which finally forced Dean Winchester awake. He’d been drifting in and out for a while, delaying the moment when he’d have to open his eyes and face the hangover, concussion, whatever the hell it was. Maybe a combination of both, that’d be an awesome start to the day but he had no clear idea what day it even was right now. All he knew for sure was that he was cold, some bastard with a jackhammer was giving it full on _Ace of Spades_ in the back of his skull and there was a smell he didn’t care for. Damp and decay, mixed with a coppery odour he couldn’t place. Dean was certain he wasn’t in whatever motel bed he’d paid good money for. 

He tried to open his eyes, which required more effort than usual. His eyelids were heavy, some kind of gunk holding them together but he got there eventually. He was lying on his side and got a confusing look at what was directly in front of him. His vision was blurred, some rapid blinking didn’t do much to pull it into focus and it took his brain a while to catch up with what his eyeballs were showing him.

“What the hell?”

Dean sat up fast, which turned out to be a mistake. He felt something tear down his left side a second before the pain hit. He swore, feeling the familiar wet warmth of blood seeping from whatever injury was down there. He pulled up his shirt, wincing as blood-stiffened fabric parted company with raw flesh and stared at the jagged wound which ran from his ribs to his hipbone. He didn’t remember getting that.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and took in his surroundings, trying to put his brain in gear and connect with whatever danger he might be in. But the pounding in his head, definitely concussion, made it difficult to concentrate. 

He was in a small, windowless room. The only light came from a dim bulb on a trailing wire above him. It was on the frizz, flickering and buzzing which gave the whole scene a bizarre, nightmarish quality. Dean knew he wasn’t dreaming though; it hurt too much. The walls of the room were damp and decaying; peeling wallpaper, rotting plaster and water trickling down in places. The floor was covered in dirt and debris and he didn’t let his gaze linger there for long; he really _didn’t_ want to know what was stuck to that carpet. It all explained the stink though and he gagged as he got a nose full of the coppery smell which he finally identified as blood.

Right in his line of sight was a door and every instinct promised him it would be locked; but he had to be sure. He pushed himself to his feet and nearly fell straight back down as his legs buckled and his vision swam. He bent over, clasped his knees and breathed hard, waiting for the crappy moment to pass. When he was confident of not passing out or puking, he pushed himself upright and walked unsteadily across the room, grimacing as his boots stuck to the carpet. It wasn’t more than a few paces but the effort exhausted him and set his heart hammering. 

The door was locked; no surprises there so he banged on it for a while, demanding release and promising bloody retribution on whoever or whatever was on the other side. All that got him was a butt load of silence and he kicked the door in frustration. In a room which was falling apart, why did the damned thing have to be so solid? The small acts of exertion did not go unpunished; Dean’s head began to spin and he leaned hard against the door, willing his legs to keep him upright. He couldn’t figure out why he felt so weak and tired until he caught sight of the bed he’d woken up on. The narrow bunk was topped by a grimy, soiled mattress but even in the dim, freakish light, Dean could see two large bloodstains on it. One matched up to the cut in his side, the other was right where…

He raised a shaky hand to his head, searching for the wound. He found it above his left eye, close to the hairline. He also found a golf ball-sized lump on the back of his head and dried blood all over his face. He eyed the bunk balefully; how much of himself had leaked into that damned thing while he’d been unconscious? How long would it take to catch some kind of skeevy infection? How had he ended up in this mess, how long had he been here? And where in the hell was Sam?

Fear and guilt hit Dean in roughly equal parts. Whatever had gone down; was Sam a part of it too? Was Sam locked up in some other room, hurt, bleeding and confused? Did he wind up there because Dean wasn’t strong or smart enough to protect him?

He cursed steadily as he rummaged through his jeans, looking for his cell phone. It wasn’t there. Last he remembered it was in the pocket of his coat, but he wasn’t wearing a coat anymore. Dean’s eyes flicked round the skanky room, seeking out the garment, but it was gone. He allowed himself a sardonic smile; of course it was gone because that was the Winchester way, right? Friggin’ difficult. Always.

He was beginning to lose it. He’d had the shakes since he woke up and put it down to the chill in the room. But they were getting worse. The bouts of nausea, which he’d put down to the smell, were consolidating in his guts and if he didn’t sit soon he was going to puke. He limped across the room and sat heavily on the bunk, his hand landing in a puddle of his own blood. The mattress was sodden and his stomach clenched up tighter as he realised he might be hurt worse than he cared to admit. The wound in his head seemed to have stopped bleeding but the gash in his side was leaking steadily. He knew he should rip up his shirt, try for a makeshift bandage, but he didn’t have the energy.

Dean’s head felt heavy and he let it rest in his hands. He could deal with this situation if he could just remember how he got here; at least figure out what he was up against. He cast round his shattered memories for clues, followed them up a few blind alleys before hitting on something he remembered with clarity. The Impala, his baby, had been misfiring. Most likely a fouled plug or loose cable, but he didn’t stop and make the repair immediately. He had someplace better to be. 

Recollection returned with a vengeance and Dean reeled as it slammed him from all sides. The beers, the girl, the fight in the parking lot… Just your average Dean Winchester night out in all respects but one; this time he’d been set up and he honestly hadn’t seen it coming. 

“Friggin’ dumbass.”

Dean slammed his hand against the bedframe and winced as pain needled across his ribs. Now he knew why he ached so much, how he’d got all the bruises and especially how he’d gotten that cut in his side. He knew it was serious, probably needed medical attention but rather than worry or fear, he felt relief. Because Sam hadn’t been there; Sam had got mad and driven back to their motel hours before it all went down. Sam was safe and out looking for his big brother this very moment. Dean kept telling himself that because he needed to keep hope alive. Right now it seemed like Sammy was his only hope. 

He thought about lying down again but knew he’d pass out if he did. He needed to stay alert, be ready for whatever came through that door and he stared at it intently, willing himself to stay conscious. It didn’t take long to lose that fight. 

He was roused by a loud bang and even louder voices. It took him a while to figure out he was on the bed again, flat on his back and the voices were right above him. He opened his eyes and squinted up at four faces; they didn’t look friendly and were decorated with cuts and bruises. With a jolt, Dean recognised them as the group who’d jumped him in the parking lot. 

“Guess I showed you girls, huh?”

A tall, skinny dude with greasy blonde hair grinned right back. “Showtime, Dean. You all dressed up and ready to go?”

Dean didn’t let his mask slip. “Born ready, sweetheart; we going on a date?”

“Better than that.” The man held up his hand to reveal the shackles and chain he was holding. Dean stared at them.

“Bondage ain’t really my thing.”

Blondie was nonplussed. “We’re taking you to the sale room and the main attraction is… oh yeah, Dean Winchester.”

Dean reacted instinctively. He kicked out hard and got the skinny bastard square in the jewels. He dropped the shackles with a clang and staggered backwards, clutching himself and cursing. Dean tried to use the distraction to his advantage. He leaped up from the bed and cannoned into the remaining three men, adrenalin acting as an effective pain killer. He got in a couple of solid punches before they overpowered him, slamming his head against the frame of the bunk, stunning him and opening up the cut in his head. Blood began cascading into his eyes and he couldn’t see a damned thing. He felt his arms being forced behind his back, heavy shackles locked onto his wrists and then he was being dragged from the room. 

Dragged towards God knew what.


	2. Chapter 2

RISING SUN, INDIANA  
 _Six hours previously_

Sam had dozed off on I-74, somewhere in the vicinity of Batesville, lulled by the tedium of the interstate and rhythmic roll of the Impala’s wheels on the blacktop. He was dead beat. He’d gotten about three hours sleep the night before; cold and cramped on the back seat of the car, parked up on some godforsaken back road in the middle of nowhere. Dean snoring up front didn’t add a whole lot to the experience. 

Even so, he was amazed he’d managed to drop off with his brother at the wheel. Dean could be an irritating driver. It wasn’t just his persistent cursing at other motorists, phones going off and channel hopping on the radio either. On top was the volume constantly going up and down, the sing alongs, the crackle of chip packets and other road food… In spite of it all, Sam sank into a sound sleep. 

Something flicking his ear lobe woke him with a jolt. He knew what it was before he even opened his eyes; Dean couldn’t handle his own company for long. His brother’s voice was way too loud. 

“What’s up Van Winkle?”

Rip Van Winkle. Not funny. Where had Dean dredged that up from? Sam faked sleep for a while, tried to get back into whatever dream he knew he’d been enjoying, but there was the flicking again. Harder this time. Dean wasn’t about to let up. He opened his eyes and knocked his brother’s hand away. 

“What the hell? Get off me, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead but there was a smile pulling at his lips. He was pleased with his work. 

“Ten miles to Shinetown, bro. You’re missing the sights.”

Sam squinted at the scenery through sleep-blurred eyes. Early evening sunlight slanted across open fields and forest, accenting the spectacular colours of early Fall. He took it all in, trying to appreciate the rustic charm and Dean whistled as they drove through a tiny, picturesque town which could easily have doubled for Tuscany or Provence. 

“This is serious grape country, man. You know the Pepper Ridge and Crest Valley vineyards are round here somewhere?”

He paused just a moment for effect. “Did that sound whiney?”

Sam couldn’t even crack a smile. “You’re not funny, Dean.”

“Come on. I’m a barrel of laughs.” 

Sam groaned. Dean had probably been thinking these up for hours. He stared out the side window pointedly, hoping his brother would get the message but no dice. He still wasn’t done. 

“Don’t bottle it up, Sammy. Say what you feel.”

Dean seemed wired and Sam wondered what he’d taken before realising it was a combination of sleep deprivation, junk food and adrenalin. It might be annoying but he’d rather have this Dean than the morose, introspective, taciturn Dean of the past few months. 

“Why are you so stoked?”

Dean glanced over, surprised. “Are you kidding? This is the closest thing to a vacation we’ve had in months. Maybe I’ll do me some fishing, know what I mean? See what local delicacies I can reel in…”

“Dean, we’re here to work.”

The words ran like water off a duck’s back; his brother was on some kind of sugar high. “Hey, do you think Pepper Ridge does tastings? I could use a little cheese and wine action.”

It was frustrating when Dean got like this, especially when they had more important things to do, but Sam didn’t want to burst the bubble of unexpected good humor. He chose his words carefully.

“This thing’s been lighting up the frequencies for weeks. Now something’s actually happening you want to take a sabbatical?”

Dean grinned. “Man, I just wanna stop long enough to smell the rosès.”

Okay, that one was funny but Sam didn’t give him the satisfaction of a laugh. Dean’s mind wasn’t even in the vicinity of the job in hand and he searched for a way to get his brother focussed. 

“We’re gonna check it out, okay? Now we’ve finally got an ID on Joolz McGuire…”

Dean snorted. “Joolz with a zee.” 

No sarcasm there at all and Sam raised an eyebrow. “Dude, he’s fifteen.”

Dean shook his head. “No excuse.”

Sam persevered, though it felt like he was wading through treacle. “Joolz McGuire, the wonder kid who can apparently locate missing people, dead or living, by touching something they touched…” 

“How’s that different to a regular psychic?” Now Dean was plain dismissive and Sam fought down his irritation. 

“How many psychics do you know with a hundred percent strike rate, huh? None of the fake, floaty crap you love so much?”

Dean shrugged. “I can think of a few.”

“Yeah? How many are still alive?”

It was a low blow; the memory of Pamela Barnes and her shocking, untimely death, slammed straight into his head. Judging by the frown on his face, Dean was getting the same picture. When he eventually broke the long silence, he sounded more subdued. 

“This thing’s been nothing but smoke and mirrors and suddenly it all zeroes in on Rising Sun. Doesn’t it seem kind of convenient?”

Sam considered. “Maybe; but three reports in a week, all pointing here? We’ve got to check it out. Just think what this kid can do for us if he’s on the level.”

Dean looked sceptical. “If he’s not, we just wasted two days driving across three states.”

Sam gazed at him quizzically. “Those were real missing people, man. Anyway, you got someplace better to go?”

Dean smiled. “Pepper Ridge still sounds good.”

The Impala chose that moment to shudder and momentarily lose power before pulling it together and rumbling onwards. Dean nearly shit himself. 

“Baby? What’s wrong, where does it hurt?”

Dean had been talking to his car like she was a chick for so long that Sam barely noticed anymore. However, he owed his brother for all the bad wine puns.

“You know you sound like a lunatic when you talk…”

Dean interrupted, sounding outraged. “What the hell, Sam? She can hear you.”

The old Chevy shuddered again and Dean threw him an accusing look. “Now she’s pissed. Way to go, Sammy.”

Sam couldn’t see why it was such a big deal. “It’s a loose cable, dude. Chill out.” 

“You chill out. Who made you the Queen friggin’ spanner monkey?”

Sam grimaced, remembering a time when, no thanks to The Trickster, he’d been on intimate terms with the car. “I spent time under that hood, remember? Quality time...”

“Oh yeah.” Dean smirked. “I never told you, Sam; but that was pretty hot.”

Sam really wouldn’t put it past his brother to get off on that kind of thing. “Pervert.”

Dean shrugged it off. “Whatever.”

“Bitch.”

Dean grinned and his eyes flashed. “Don’t be stealing my lines, bro. You know what happens…”

He turned the radio up to deafening volume. Then he started singing. 

Sam blocked out the noise with an efficiency born of long experience. They were getting close to town now and he watched a few buildings roll past between the fields and stands of trees. Houses and factories mainly, but then they approached something which was unmistakeably a bar. Not a classy one either. It was called _House of the Rising Sun_ and he braced himself, waiting for another lousy joke. Dean didn’t say a word though, just took his foot off the gas and let the Impala cruise. A moment later he spotted what Dean had zeroed in on; a couple of scantily clad chicks hanging out on the porch. Dean had his window down, arm propped on the side sill, shades low on his nose and he gunned the engine to pull their attention. Miraculously he got what he was looking for; one of the chicks gave him the eye and blew a kiss. 

Dean chuckled and Sam cursed silently. He knew where they’d be spending the rest of their evening; so much for beer, take-out and TV in their room, as planned. 

They found a place to stay a couple more miles down the same road. _The Rivers of Wine Motel_ sounded promising but when Sam went to the front desk to check in, he knew from a glance it was their usual brand of skanky dive. Dean held back, popped the hood on the Impala and got busy making whatever repair was necessary. It gave Sam time to find the room, dump their bags, get his shit unpacked and check out the shower. The water was a good temperature and he considered jumping right in, eager to shed two days of road grime. It wasn’t worth the grief he’d get from Dean though. His brother always pulled rank and took the hottest shower on account of being the oldest.

Dean sauntered through the door a few minutes later, holding a mostly empty bottle of beer. “Loose HT cable; just like you said, mom.” 

The beer explained why it had taken ten minutes to make a thirty second repair. He scoped out the room casually. “You wanna take first shower?”

Sam looked at him, surprised. “Seriously?”

Dean threw himself onto the vacant bed and made himself comfortable. “Sure. I figured I’d take a power nap before we check out the bar.”

Sam didn’t push it. They’d both seen the _Magic Fingers_ machine.


	3. Chapter 3

_Four hours previously_

It was after nine when they finally made it back to The House of the Rising Sun. Dean’s power nap had turned into a sound sleep and Sam crept round for over an hour, not wanting to wake him. The longer they spent in the motel room, the less time he had to endure in that damned bar. But Dean’s own snoring finally woke him and he wasn’t pleased to discover it was 8.45. He showered in a heartbeat and hustled Sam into the car.

The bar wasn’t any better inside than it was outside. It was basic, functional and at this relatively early time, mostly empty. Even so, the music was already too loud. It looked like the kind of joint which needed sawdust on the floor; to mop up blood from whatever fight was sure to break out later. Sam was restless, he didn’t want to be here but Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer. They chose a corner table, where they both had a clear view of the room and Dean browsed the menu. That was a pointless exercise; he’d order exactly the same thing he’d been ordering for six years. 

A waitress detached herself from the bar and headed towards them, in no particular hurry. Sam put her at around thirty; not the best looking chick on the planet but she’d compensated with a short skirt and clingy top which showed off her generous assets to the max. He heard Dean’s sharp intake of breath and turned in time to see his brother’s dropping eye line.

“Oh man, stretch me out on that rack and feed me pie.”

It didn’t take the waitress long to notice where Dean’s eyes were fixed and she didn’t look happy. Dean was oblivious and Sam nudged him in the ribs. 

“Cool it, Dean. She doesn’t look…”

He couldn’t finish because she was standing right in front of them. She addressed them brusquely. “What’ll it be?”

Dean’s eyes hadn’t moved and now he was wearing an expression of awe. Sam coughed another warning which went unheeded. When he finally got it together enough to speak, Dean addressed the cleavage directly.

“Two beers and, uh…” He lifted his eyes only far enough to read her name badge; put a hint of suggestion into his voice. “What else would you recommend, Melanie?”

Melanie gave him a frosty smile. If he’d been looking at her face he would have spotted the danger. “For starters?”

Dean shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

“For starters I recommend you find someplace else to park your eyes, you creepy son of a bitch.”

He’d totally asked for that and Sam tried hard not to laugh. Dean’s face was a picture of shock, bewilderment and foundering ego as Melanie turned on her heel and fired her parting shot. “That’s priceless. You should take a selfie.”

Dean stared after her; he seemed confused. “A selfie’s like a hand job, right?”

Sam could finally let it out and he laughed hard; sometimes he could only wonder at his brother’s ignorance. Dean’s mind was stuck on the immediate issue though.

“What was that? Did I just get blown off?”

“You wish.” Sam shook his head, still chuckling. “You sound surprised.”

Dean was watching Melanie, talking with her buddies at the bar and jerking an angry thumb in his direction. “She definitely plays for the other team.” 

Sam thought Melanie looked like a totally regular girl, if a rather blessed one. “Sounds like sour grapes to me, man. Must get a lot of that in wine country.”

Dean sniffed, ignoring the comment. “Screw her, plenty more fish in the sea.”

He looked round the bar appraisingly as the street door opened and a couple of chicks walked in. One of them was just his type; young, dark and slender. Sam rarely made judgements based on appearance but his brother nearly always did; Dean would consider her easy. Fate seemed to be lending a hand in sealing the deal since she was wearing a Led Zeppelin tee shirt. Dean whistled softly.

“Check it out.”

He started singing the opening line of _Stairway to Heaven_ , way too loud. Sam hushed him hastily, before anybody else heard. 

“Not in a bar, Dean. Not cool.” 

He watched as Dean struggled to remember the many road rules they’d established. 

“Only if they do karaoke, right?”

Sam shook his head incredulously. “ _Especially_ if they do karaoke.”

It was too late. The girl made eye contact with Dean and gave him what could only be described as a green light. Dean leaned back in his chair and eyed Sam triumphantly.

“Uh huh…”

Sam made a vain attempt to talk him down. “Dude, listen to me…”

Dean arched an eyebrow and grinned; a picture of supreme, sexual cool. In his own mind at least. 

Their beers arrived. Another waitress brought them over and from the way she banged them down on the table and gave Dean the stink eye, it was clear Melanie had filled her in. Dean didn’t even notice. Sam took a bracing swig and tried to steer the conversation somewhere positive.

“So we need to talk about this job.” 

No response. He tried again. “ _Dean!_ We need to strategize.”

Dean was totally distracted by the chick; pretending to talk with her friend while throwing out teasers. Provocative poses, moistening of lips, little hair flicks… Dean was lapping it up like a horny dog and Sam was losing patience. He prodded his brother hard and finally got his attention.

“So when we meet this kid, what do we even say to him?”

Dean let out a frustrated sigh and leaned in close, totally serious now. 

“I figured something like this: ‘Hey Joolz with a zee, I’m Dean. A hundred and eighty pounds; give or take. I’m carrying a Colt .45 semi-automatic, it’s loaded and I’d like you to find some dead people for me’. How would that go over?”

Sam wondered how a punch in the face would go over. “You think that’s funny?”

“I’ve got an idea, Sammy. Let’s do this tomorrow.”

The last of Sam’s patience deserted him. “Dammit, Dean. Why does everything have to be about your basic… instincts?”

He wished he hadn’t used that particular phrase the second it was out his mouth. He could see the comeback gunning down the highway at ninety and Dean didn’t disappoint. 

“If you didn’t have that rod jammed so far up your ass you’d have the same basic instincts as regular guys. Hell, you might even get a boner for Sharon Stone like regular guys.”

Sam was getting riled. “It was you dragged me here, remember? All I’m asking is you give me a few minutes, talk about the job, then go hit on the chick.”

Dean flopped back in his chair. “I’ve been driving for two days, man. I’m tired. I can’t even think straight.”

Sam seized the moment. “Okay, then here’s a wake-up call. Winchester Academy Drill Rule number one: focus on what’s important, not what’s right under your nose, however good it smells.”

He knew from Dean’s face that all could smell right now was the chick at the bar. The rejoinder took a moment longer than usual.

“Rule number one is don’t get killed, Sam. Actually rule number one is watch out for your prissy kid brother, even when he’s acting like a little bitch.”

"Jerk." The word came out of Sam's mouth automatically, though he really wanted to say something much worse.

Dean chugged half his beer and banged the bottle on the table. It was a clear warning. “You’re bringing up The Drill after all this time why? You hated that crap.”

Sam glared at him. “So did you.”

“Nah, it was regular _Boy’s Own_ stuff. What kid wouldn’t want to see the world, shoot some guns, gank some monsters…”

Sam completed the sentence. “… Set bones, stitch wounds; live in fear of something ripping your guts out…”

Dean slapped his hand on the table. “Good times.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Enough with the sex talk, Sam. I ain’t gonna fight you.” Dean took a more measured swig of beer. “Anyway, I thought you were cool with that whole gig.”

Sam shrugged. “I accepted it.”

“Awesome. Can we move on?” Dean’s voice was dismissive, remote and it got right under Sam’s skin. 

“I accepted it. I never said I liked it. You know what? Maybe I should just work the job alone.”

“There is no job”. Dean spoke slowly, like Sam was some kind of moron. “We know where the kid lives; tomorrow we go talk to him. If he pans out great, if he doesn’t we catch a little R&R. What part of that needs a friggin’ discussion?”

Sam was silent, trying to get his anger under control before he said something he regretted. Dean had no such reservations. 

“Oh I get it. Your feelings are hurt. You wanted some quality time, huh? Share and emote, cry over REM? Well suck it up, Sammy, I ain’t in the mood.”

Sam hated the way Dean could read him like a book, and he was right on the money. After so long out in the cold, wandering soul-less and emotionless, looking at his brother like he was a piece of meat rather than flesh and blood, he really would have liked some quality time together. It was upsetting how Dean didn’t feel the same way but the biggest disappointment lay in the words. Dean knew exactly which buttons to press and his comments were designed to hurt. Well Sam could press a few buttons of his own. 

“When I had no soul all you did was bellyache. Now you’ve jammed it back in you’re _still_ more interested in chicks than spending time with me. What are you scared of?”

“Sammy…”

That was Dean’s _don’t fuck with me_ voice and most people heeded the warning. Sam wasn’t most people though. 

“Screw you, Dean. I’m going back to the motel.”

Dean shrugged. “Do what you gotta do.”

“And I’m taking the car.”

Dean dug in his coat pocket and tossed over the keys.


	4. Chapter 4

_Less than four hours previously…_

Dean watched Sam leave the bar. He was walking stiffly, shoulders arched back, the way he walked when he was royally pissed. Dean didn’t feel good about the last part of their conversation, knew he shouldn’t have been so hard on his brother, but he wasn’t lying about being tired. He needed time to kick back, relax and Sam in full-on hunter mode wasn’t helping that on any level. What Dean needed right now was some distraction and diversion. What he really wanted was sex.

Right on cue the chick in the Led Zep tee dropped into the seat opposite. She smiled in a manner which meant only one thing and he grinned right back. 

“How about we find that Stairway to Heaven, sweetheart?”

He got the essentials in thirty seconds flat; her name was Tanya and she was unattached. The rest was basically killing time but he had to go through the motions; hook-up protocol was like religion, you did it by the book. Occasionally you might get lucky, some renegade chick who’d cut right to the chase, but most of them played the long game. Tanya was definitely one of those; the type you needed to get properly oiled before making a move.

Dean bought their drinks; he paid for their burgers, made amusing small talk and told outrageous lies for over two hours, knowing the whole time his credit card was close to maxed out. He was drinking too fast, which might lead to something embarrassing later on, but what the hell right? He’d cross that bridge when he got to it; if he ever got to it…

The bar had been filling up steadily and around eleven he noticed four guys come in. He only paid attention because Tanya was in the can and on account of the noise they were making. At the hub of it was a weasely looking dude with long, stringy blonde hair. If Dean had been closer he might have been irritated but he’d drunk enough beer to take the edge off and his mind was focussed on getting laid. Finally, just after 11.30, Tanya started giving the right signals. Shortly after she suggested they go back to her place. 

The fresh air outside the bar didn’t do much to sober Dean up; in fact it made things worse. He had his arm wrapped round Tanya’s shoulders, as much to hold himself up as put on a show of intimacy. Dammit, he wished he hadn’t drunk so much. He gazed round the parking lot, looking for his baby before remembering she was long gone. He turned to Tanya, slightly embarrassed. 

“So my jerk brother kind of took off in my ride.”

She smiled and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “Don’t sweat it honey. Mine’s over there. 

She led him to an ancient Pontiac in the furthest corner of the lot. She’d seen better days but it wouldn’t take much fixing to get her looking pretty again. Dean was still impressed. As Tanya fumbled in her purse, looking for the keys, he heard the street door of the bar bang open. Curious, he turned to look. The loud blonde dude from earlier was coming out, his three buddies close behind and they were all heading in his direction. He nudged Tanya, still digging for gold.

“They with you?”

She glanced at the group dismissively. “You kidding?”

Dean wasn’t convinced. They were approaching with clear intent and he sized them up quickly. None of them looked like anything he should be worried about, but he was curious to know what he’d done to piss them off. Tanya was the obvious link. She’d probably lied to him; they usually did, and was most likely dating one of them. Now it was time for payback. When they were six feet away he knew he’d definitely found trouble but bluffed it out anyway. 

“Only four, huh? Okay, I’m game.”

Something slammed across his shoulders with enough force to send him sprawling in the dirt. He rolled onto his back, trying to get his feet under him and Tanya was on him like a bitch on heat. She straddled his chest and his booze fuelled brain tried to connect what was going on. He looked round blearily for whoever had whacked him, the guy who’d managed to sneak up behind, but there was nobody. Just four morons from the bar up close and personal. He stared at Tanya.

“This’d be pretty hot if those dudes weren’t watching.”

She smiled sweetly. “They’re with me.”

It took a long moment for the penny to drop and Dean cursed his own drunkenness. “You set me up? That’s… fantastic.”

Tanya’s smile seemed feral now. “I put you down, honey.”

She pointed at the piece of two by four on the ground and Dean’s brain screamed _asshole_. Tanya leaned down and whispered in his ear. 

“And so easy; I thought Dean Winchester would be a lot smarter.”

She ran a fingernail down his cheek and he jerked his face away. “We could have had fun together. What a waste...”

All Dean could think about was the damned credit card. “You know what’s a waste? All those friggin’ spritzers I bought you. I want my money back.”

“Too late, Nate.”

“Bitch.”

Tanya laughed at him. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Dean had to think for a few seconds. His insult generator wasn’t exactly fine-tuned right now but he gave it his best shot. 

“Fugly bitch.”

She slapped his face hard enough to make his eyes water. Blondie stepped into his limited field of view. 

“Quit playing with him. We’ve got work to do.”

Tanya stood up lithely. “He’s all yours, boys. Put on a show for me.”

Free of the load, Dean got slowly to his feet; watching his opponents the whole time. Blondie seemed amused.

“You the gambling type, Winchester?”

They _all_ knew his name? Awesome. Dean realised he’d been properly baited but refused to let it show. He brushed himself off nonchalantly. “Depends on the odds.”

The men surrounding him backed off, giving him space and Blondie drew a knife. Dean smirked and went for his gun. “You heard the one about bringing a blade to a gun fight, numb nuts?”

The .45 wasn’t in his pocket. He knew for sure he’d put it there before he left the motel, rarely travelled without it. Tanya’s voice drifted over, amused and patronising.

“You looking for this?”

She was holding the Colt and Dean scowled at her, wondering when she’d done it. “Slippery fingered whore.”

“Save the pillow talk, Dean. The moment’s over.”

Dean turned his attention back to the gang, thinking through his opening moves, hoping to get the jump on them. “Guess we’ll do this the old fashioned way, huh?”

They had no problem with that. The fight was fast and messy; Dean wasn’t only out-numbered, he was also way too drunk. He began well enough, managed to get in some solid punches but it didn’t last. His focus was mostly on the three men coming at him but he noticed Blondie hanging back, knife ready for action. A moment later somebody landed a solid haymaker to his jaw and he staggered, off balance and struggling to stay upright. If he went down he was finished. That’s when he felt the blade slice down his side. 

He barely noticed the pain or the blood, just hurled himself at Blondie, knocked the knife aside and grounded him with a hard jab to the face. He followed his own momentum and landed on top of the bastard, punching him repeatedly until something crashed into the back of his head and knocked him clear. The gang surrounded him and he curled into a tight ball, trying to protect himself from the blows and kicks raining down. Eventually something harder than a fist or boot smashed into his forehead; it sent him to oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

_NOW_

Dean struggled and swore as he was pulled from the cell and along a dark passageway. It was mostly habit; he didn’t stand a hope in hell of escape with his wrists shackled behind his back and four guys surrounding him. Two of them had vice like grips on his upper arms, almost cutting off his circulation; a third walked ahead and Blondie brought up the rear, prodding him in the back and tossing out taunts like Hallowe’en candy. 

The passage opened into a large room and the light in there was way too bright. It hurt Dean’s eyes and the blood running into them wasn’t helping matters any. Temporarily blinded, he kept his head down and waited for it to pass. He was pulled further into the room and there was a brief exchange as one of the gang was instructed to keep watch outside. The dude wasn’t happy about missing the action and groused at somebody called Jake before being told, bluntly, to follow orders and get the fuck out. 

Dean managed to open his eyes and get them focussed. The room he was standing in was mostly empty save for a pile of debris swept into a corner; like somebody had made a half-assed attempt at cleaning up. The floor was wooden, squeaked like a nest of rats and was full of termite holes. Everything about the place looked abandoned but at least it didn’t smell as bad as the last room he’d been in. There was a skanky looking couch pushed up against a wall and it was occupied by a man in a flannel shirt; older than the rest of the gang and sporting a scrubby, itchy-looking beard. Blondie threw himself down on the vacant cushion and both of them sat there, just watching. Dean stared back until he couldn’t take the silence any more. 

“You want me to strip tease?”

The man he assumed was Jake finally spoke. “That’s a lot of blood, Dean. Hurt much?”

Every part of him hurt like a son of a bitch but Dean wasn’t about to give this bastard the satisfaction of the truth. “I’m awesome. Where’s the party?”

Jake smiled. “We’ll do that, once we get you prettied up.”

Blondie got to his feet, grinning. “Over to the basins, princess.”

Dean was forced out of the room through a different door which led to a small, outside yard. The first thing he spotted was a water barrel in a corner and he struggled ferociously; he knew exactly what was coming next. It didn’t do him much good though; Blondie punched him in the guts and knocked the wind out of him. They pulled him over to the barrel and shoved his head into the water. It was cold enough to rob him of any breath he had remaining but a hand on the back of his neck held him under until his lungs were burning and he was close to passing out. 

When they finally let him up his legs gave out and he fell to his knees; coughing up water, almost puking and fighting for breath. He was pretty much carried back into the main room and dumped on the floor; his two handlers releasing his arms but staying close. For a while Dean couldn’t concentrate on anything except dragging air into his lungs but when he could focus again he discovered Jake still on the sofa, Blondie beside him. He struggled to his knees and glared at them, imagining what he’d be doing if he could only get free. Jake seemed pleased with the reaction.

“ _There’s_ the spirit. That’s what our clients are blowing their load over.”

Dean didn’t miss the sarcasm but wasn’t really on his ‘A’ game right now. It took a moment to process the information and he frowned, confused. “Clients? You pimping me out to the highest bidder?”

Jake shook his head. “There’s only one player in town, and they pay well.”

Dean was amused by the apparent promise of money. “What’s their policy on soiled merchandise, huh?”

Jake eyed Blondie distastefully. “I told you not to hurt him.”

“It’s Dean friggin’ Winchester.” Blondie couldn’t keep the whine out of his voice. “Did you think he’d come quietly?”

“You got your rocks off though, didn’t you, Blondie?” Dean scowled, recalling the fixed fight in the lot. Then he remembered the solid kick he’d delivered back in the cell. “How you doing down there, anyway?”

Blondie lunged from the sofa and Jake grabbed his coat and hauled him back down. Dean smirked. Mission accomplished. 

The man who’d been keeping watch came back into the room. “They’re here.”

Jake stood up as three men come in. Dean tried to get up as well but was instantly shoved down by the assholes behind him. He sized up the newcomers; two of them dressed almost identically in dark, casual clothes. They were probably the muscle; large and not especially bright. He mentally dubbed them Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber; The Tweeds. The third man was leaner, older and Dean put him in his late fifties. He was clearly the boss; wearing a smart, charcoal-coloured suit which complemented his coiffured, silvering hair. He looked at Dean appraisingly; didn’t seem impressed with what he saw. 

“ _This_ is what we’re paying ten thousand dollars for?”

Dean’s jaw dropped; not just because he was apparently being sold to this asshole. Why would anybody pay even ten bucks for a worthless piece of crap like him? Jake noticed his expression and laughed. 

“Meet Dennis Yates. He’s your buyer.”

The whole scene was getting so depraved Dean couldn’t resist making a crack. “You want me to squeal like a pig now?”

One of the guards punched him in the mouth and he spat blood on the floor, adding to the splatter painting already down there. Yates, however, didn’t appear to get off on it like the rest of them.

“That’s enough. We told you to bring him in one piece.”

“He didn’t come quiet.” The whine was back in Blondie’s voice and Yates frowned at Jake. 

“If we have to fix him up, it’s coming out of your fee.” He jerked his head at the larger Tweed. “Check him out.”

The guards pulled Dean to his feet and he experienced a brief but intense rush of vertigo which made him stagger. The grip on his arms tightened, holding him fast as the Tweed pulled up his shirt and began the inspection. Dean squirmed, feeling repulsed and violated.

“Get your hands off me you kinky bastard. I ain’t your rent boy.”

One of the guards sniggered. “Don’t play coy, Winchester. We know you like a little AC/DC.”

Dean twisted his head to glare at him. “How about I show you a little Slayer; you son of a bitch.”

The Tweed ignored the exchange and Dean grunted with pain as something jabbed against the wound in his side. It was a signet ring which the man wore on his pinky finger; there was an ornate symbol engraved on it, which might mean something, but he was distracted by all the damned prodding. The fucker wasn’t being gentle. When he’d finished he headed back to his boss, wiping blood from his hands.

“He needs a doctor.”

Yates nodded. “That’s a thousand off the agreed price, Jake. Doctors aren’t cheap.”

Jake’s face was a picture of indignation. “Now wait a goddamned minute; we took all the risks…”

Yates interrupted and his tone was menacing. “It’s not negotiable. Take it or leave it.”

Dean snorted; he’d seen that one coming down Broadway. Yates looked at him sharply.

“What part of this do you find amusing?”

Dean just shook his head. It wasn’t worth stating the obvious and getting another punch in the mouth for his trouble. Yates instructed the second Tweed to settle up and he took a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled some off the top and handed the rest to Jake. 

Yates approached Dean, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He was wearing the same kind of ring as the Tweed; same finger, same symbol. He nodded to the guards and they released their hold. Dean hadn’t realised they’d been mostly holding him upright until the support was gone. He teetered for a moment, not sure his legs would hold him, but stubbornness prevailed and he managed to steady himself. 

Yates was eyeing him like a particularly disappointing lot in a livestock auction. It irritated Dean and he embraced the feeling; it gave him something to hang on to. He took an aggressive stance and put on his best game face; promising hell. Yates seemed more impressed now.

“Really? You can barely stand.”

“Oh I’m still kicking.” 

That wasn’t entirely true. Dean’s vision was blurring, his head beginning to spin and the shackles on his wrists felt like they weighed a ton. Yates was talking; it took a lot of effort to concentrate on what he was saying. 

“That’s why we wanted you, Dean. You’re strong, you’re tenacious, you never give up… Of course you’re a little stupid as well.”

In spite of the impending blackout, the words stung. “Screw you, man.”

Dean’s balance was precarious now. He was close to losing it but Yates beckoned the Tweeds across and they stood close; ready for action. Yates addressed him again, mock concern in his voice.

“Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Uh…” Dean blinked at him for a moment, trying to remember who he was as his legs buckled. “I guess not.”

The floor raced up to meet him and he hit it hard.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam woke slowly, enjoying the comfort of his bed, the peace and quiet in the room. He figured it must be early; way too early for Dean to be up and crashing around, but when he opened his eyes and squinted at his watch, he was surprised to see it was after ten. 

He’d slept soundly from the moment his head touched the pillow last night, which was unusual. Normally Dean would wake him in the early hours; drunk and stumbling in the dark, trying to find his shit. Unless he’d got lucky... One glace at the empty bed confirmed Dean had pulled a one-nighter; it hadn’t been slept in but bore the indentation of the power nap the day before. The pile of quarters was still on the night stand by the _Magic Fingers_ machine.

Ten o’clock was late for Dean. Usually he was out the girl’s bed at the crack of dawn, before things got awkward. Occasionally he’d get lucky a second time though; still make the grade once she’d sobered up and the Led Zep chick _had_ seemed keen. Sam figured they were probably going for seconds; that got him thinking about the fight in the bar and suddenly he was glad Dean wasn’t around. He was still angry with his brother and didn’t particularly want to see him for a while. 

He took a long shower then drove into Rising Sun for a late breakfast. It was a pretty town, a sunny day and after he’d eaten he took a leisurely stroll, checking out the arts and book stores. After lunch he walked along the river and found a quaint restaurant with a variety of local wines on the menu. He spent a pleasant few hours sampling the various vintages and they were all excellent. 

Sam had started the day feeling guilty, knowing he should be working the job and checking out Joolz McGuire; but somewhere along the line he’d decided to take the same attitude as his brother. Dean had no interest in this job from the get go and his prolonged absence was nothing more than a mammoth screw you. Two could play at that game though; if one Winchester felt like taking an impromptu vacation, why shouldn’t the other? Sam didn’t plan on lifting a finger until Dean showed his face again. 

He ate supper in the same restaurant and bought a bottle of wine before driving to the motel. It was after seven when he got back. He’d half expected Dean to be waiting there, ready to give him hell for taking the car, but the room was empty. Sam felt a moment’s disquiet but the tiny grain of doubt was cushioned by the wine he’d drunk. The booze helped take the edge off his dented pride, though and fifteen minutes later he called all of Dean’s cell phones. Two of them rang in the room while the third, his main phone, went to voicemail. Sam left a short message, in a lukewarm tone, suggesting Dean get in touch as soon as he was thinking with his big brain again.

Sam settled in for the evening. He drank a glass of wine out on the porch, enjoying the evening sun, trying not to think how much better this would be if his brother was sat beside him, chugging beer and rattling off crappy jokes. When the sun dipped below the treeline he went back inside. He spent the next few hours watching TV but his phone was on the bed and he glanced at it every five minutes, willing it to ring. Dean would know he was worried but he could be one stubborn son of a bitch, not to mention an insensitive one. At eleven o’clock he left another message and texted for good measure. Then he finished the wine. 

When Sam woke next morning, with only a minor headache, the first thing he did was grab for his phone. No voice message, no text. It was after nine and now he was definitely concerned; thirty six hours with no word from Dean was unthinkable and he was getting a bad feeling. He left another message, sent another text and decided what to do while he showered. The obvious course of action was retracing their steps, which meant first port of call was The House of the Rising Sun. 

Sam doubted it would be open for a while so he grabbed breakfast in a diner near the motel and took his laptop with him. As he ate he checked the local news websites for recent stories involving skirmishes, arrests and accidents. They turned up nothing but for good measure he phoned the local hospitals, clinics and police, giving Dean’s description and a sketchy story. That also drew a blank but offered some relief; at least his brother wasn’t in a cell or hospitalized. 

It was after ten when he arrived at The Rising Sun. The lot was deserted and he parked the Impala by the street door. Inside it was quiet and empty but he spotted the well-endowed waitress, Melanie, sitting up one end of the bar; drinking coffee and engaged in animated conversation with another woman. Sam knew she’d seen him come in but she ignored him. He waited at the other end of the bar for a minute before approaching her, fixing his most engaging smile into place. 

“Hey, you might remember I was here a couple of nights ago with…”

She beat him to the punch. “With a gigantic douchebag; how could I forget? What a creep.”

“Wow, don’t hold back.” Sam was startled by her tone, though it was an accurate description of Dean’s behaviour. 

Melanie shrugged. “What can I tell you? I say what I see.”

Sam let the fake smile drop. “The thing is; he never made it back to his motel so I was wondering…”

“Doesn’t surprise me; he was all over that slut Tanya.” Melanie grimaced. “I was nearly sick in my mouth.”

Sam persevered, treading gently. Clearly she was still pissed. “And they left together?”

“I guess; can’t say I gave that much of a shit.”

He tried a different tack. “Do you know where Tanya lives?”

Melanie shook her head. “I’m paid to pour drinks, mister, that’s all. I don’t pry.”

Sam was getting frustrated by her stone walling and struggled to keep his voice even. “Would anybody else here know? Any of the staff?”

She shrugged again. “You’d have to ask them.”

“Sure, okay.” Sam looked round the bar for other staff. “Where do I find them?”

Melanie smirked. “It’s just me here right now. Next shift starts at noon.”

Sam was downright annoyed now. Even if she could help, she clearly wasn’t going to. Way to go, Dean. “Right; well, thanks for being so helpful.”

The sarcasm earned him a spiteful grin. “My middle name.” 

Sam went back to the car, wondering if he should wait it out and question the other staff. Temporarily at a loss, he called Dean again. As expected the phone rang a few times before going to voicemail, but not before he caught the sound of distant music. He dialed again, suspecting he’d imagined it but this time he was certain; the familiar rock ringtone was coming from a far corner of the lot. He headed over and called again, located the phone under a scrubby bush and his stomach twisted as he picked it up. It was covered in dried blood. He looked round and found a large patch of blood in the dust nearby; Dean’s battered Zippo was beside it. 

Sam checked through the phone quickly, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He found his own missed calls, messages and texts, but nothing outgoing since before they’d arrived in town. Now he was officially frightened; something bad had gone down here, somebody had gotten hurt and every instinct told him it was his brother. 

He hurried over to the Impala, popped the trunk and rummaged through the box of fake IDs. The first useful one he pulled was a US Marshal’s badge but it wasn’t until he was striding purposefully through the bar that he saw the name on it. Reuben Cogburn. If he wasn’t so damned worried he’d be cursing Dean with all his heart. 

He flashed the badge at Melanie and spoke sternly. “I tried to do this nicely, but now I’m making it official. I’m a Deputy US Marshal and you’re going to answer some questions.” 

Melanie raised an eyebrow. “A marshal? Like from the wild west?”

Sam pulled himself to his full height and glared at her. “Our facilities are modern and our lockups are very secure. Would you like to see them?” 

She stared for a moment, looked about to make another smart ass comment then thought better of it. “Jeez, I was only saying…”

Sam nodded. “You’re feeling talkative now? How about you tell me what really happened two nights ago?”

“To that douch…”

“To my partner; also a Federal Marshal.”

Melanie shrugged. “He left with the slut around midnight; four guys followed them out. I heard there was a fight in the lot but none of ‘em came back in. The end.”

Sam glanced around the room, looking for cameras. “You got CCTV here?”

“Nope.” Melanie sounded smug; or maybe she thought she was getting one over on him. Sam stared at her through narrowed eyes until she dropped her gaze. 

“In that case you’re going to give me names and no more bullshit.”

She was quiet for a while; she really didn’t want to help but Sam had the power of the law on his side. He slapped his hand down firmly on the bar.

“Sometime this year, miss.”

“I only recognised that creep Charlie Watson.” Melanie sounded like she was sucking lemons. “Thinks he’s some kind of big shot but he’s just another low life retard. This place is crawling with ‘em.”

“Where does he live?”

“Somewhere out on River Lane; that’s all I know.” Melanie scowled. “That’s all I want to know. “

Sam was suspicious, convinced she knew the guy better than she was letting on. “You sure about that?”

“I don’t row on that team, mister”. She was indignant, affronted and Sam decided this part, at least, wasn’t an act. 

“Can I get back to my customer now?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned on her heel and marched away. Sam realised Dean’s gaydar had been spot on but resolved not to share; it would make his brother unbearable. He called after Melanie. 

“If you’re lying, I’ll be back.”

She eyed him coldly. “Whatever you say; Wyatt.”

It didn’t take Sam long to find Charlie Watson on the police database and the various mug shots showed a weasely looking dude with stringy blonde hair. He had a long record of petty crime, with a side line in violence and Sam wondered why the hell Dean had tangled with an asshole like that. He wasn’t really surprised though; his brother had a gift for finding trouble.

He drove out to Charlie’s address, only a few minutes from the bar and discovered a ramshackle one-storey with two junkers out front and a bunch of engine parts strewn round the yard. He parked down the street and approached the place cautiously on foot. He snuck round the perimeter, looking through windows and eventually spotted Charlie in a dirty, cluttered living room. He was sitting on a couch in his underwear, watching a big screen TV and eating cereal from the box. He seemed to be alone so Sam went to the back door and tried the handle. It opened first time and he smiled; why did country people always leave their doors unlocked? He walked quietly down a short hallway, following the sound of the TV then barrelled through the living room door. Charlie almost jumped out of his skin and cereal scattered across the floor. 

“What the fuck? Who are you?”

From the look in his eyes, Charlie had no clue who Sam was. That could work to his advantage.

“I’m the guy who’s gonna make your life real difficult unless you tell me what happened two nights ago.”

Sam kept his voice quiet, menacing and Charlie blinked at him for a moment. When the penny dropped he lunged sideways, fast as a tomcat on heat and grabbed something from under a cushion. Sam was already charging when he saw the muzzle of a pistol swinging his way. He kept going, shoved the gun aside and a bullet whistled past his left ear; impacting in the wall behind. 

“Son of a bitch!” 

He grabbed Charlie’s wrist and twisted it until something cracked. Charlie screamed in agony, the gun clattered to the floor and Sam punched him in the face for good measure.

“That’s for trying to shoot me.”

He stepped back, breathing hard. Charlie was doubled up on the couch, clutching his wrist and whimpering. Sam picked up the gun and realised, with a shock, it was Dean’s Colt. 45; his service pistol with the white grip. He cuffed Charlie round the head to get his attention.

“Where did you get this gun?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Sam cuffed him again. “Dean Winchester, asshole; this is his gun. I also found his cell phone in the parking lot at the bar and I found a lot of blood.”

He got right up in Charlie’s face. “I’m only gonna ask once. What happened?”

Charlie flinched away. “Jesus, chill out will you? We was only following orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Jake was the fixer. Talk to him.”

Sam pointed the gun at Charlie’s head and he screamed. “I swear to God, man.”

Sam thumbed back the trigger. “Where’s my brother, you son of a bitch?”

Charlie’s eyes widened slightly as he took in that piece of information. “We drove him to the old house on Somerset Road and the buyers met us. I don’t know where they took him after.”

Sam reeled at the implications of his words. “Buyers… What the hell? What did you do to him?”

Charlie managed to drum up some bravado and he sneered. “Your brother’s a real jerk; he needed telling some things.”

Sam grabbed his shirt and dragged him to his feet. “It took four of you to do that?”

Charlie didn’t smell so good up close. Sam released him and backed away but he kept the gun armed and visible. 

“You’re going to tell me everything.”

Over a long course of blame laying, whining and excuses, Sam managed to piece together events at The Rising Sun. Tanya was bait, Charlie and his buddies jumped Dean in the parking lot and Jake met them at a house on Somerset Road. Three men came to collect Dean sometime after 1am, money had changed hands and Sam tried to get his head round that one. Charlie told him it was ten thousand dollars, minus cashback, which meant someone might have put a bounty on his brother. Charlie didn’t know for sure; all Charlie cared about was the two grand he’d made for a few hours work. 

Sam was sure he was holding something back, though he gave the spineless bastard his best badass act. Charlie was scared, but seemed more frightened of something else; kept repeating how Jake Matthews was the main man and Sam needed to go see him. 

When he was done, Sam drove out to Jake’s place. It was ten minutes away and the house was empty; no car in the driveway, all the doors locked. Charlie had probably called ahead, warned his buddy but Jake couldn’t stay gone forever. He’d break cover eventually. 

Sam’s next stop was the house on Somerset Road. He found it just as Charlie described; dirty, falling down and abandoned. He located the room where the sale had taken place, found blood on the floor then sought out the tiny cell where they’d kept Dean prisoner. There were fresh bloodstains on the mattress and Sam’s stomach knotted up; Charlie had been uncharacteristically descriptive about what happened inside this house and Dean had not been in good shape. He’d been unconscious by the time negotiations were complete and judging from all the blood, it wasn’t surprising. The only positive Sam could see was how nobody would pay ten thousand dollars for his brother and let him bleed to death. He held onto the thought grimly, it was the only thing keeping him sane right now. 

He made a thorough search of the house but came up empty; it was clean as a whistle, in a totally shitty kind of way. The buyers had been careful, they’d hired over-priced help to do their dirty work and now they were in the wind. The only solid lead was Jake Matthews, also in the wind. In desperation Sam called Bobby Singer, explained the situation and Bobby promised to put out an APB across hunter frequencies. After that Sam called Castiel. As usual Cas didn’t pick up so he left an abrupt voicemail, trying to convey the urgency of the situation to an angel who didn’t seem to give a shit anymore. 

By the time Sam drove away from Somerset Road he’d managed to get his panic under control. Dean was hurt, Dean was somebody’s prisoner but Sam wasn’t a lick of use to him unless he stayed calm and worked this like a regular case. The nagging guilt which had plagued him since he awoke wasn’t as easy to dismiss; he’d sat around sulking for a day and a half while his brother was going through God knew what. If the tables were turned, no way would Dean have sat on his ass like that. Dean was hardwired to protect his family, brainwashed was probably more accurate, but he got the job done and he _never_ felt sorry for himself. Sam pushed the feelings to one side; he didn’t have time for them right now. 

There wasn’t much of anything to go on but he needed to do something. He headed back to Jake’s place, planning to break in and turn the place over. Maybe he’d find something useful, maybe he’d beat on Charlie Watson some more, maybe he’d see if the cops had anything he could use…

It was a lot of maybes.


	7. Chapter 7

When Dean came to his senses he wasn’t sure if anything was real. He felt out-of-focus, disconnected and was only capable of functioning in the moment. The past was a blur; hazy, spinning fragments of pain and humiliation and he didn’t want to go back there right now. 

What mattered was that he was warm and comfortable; when he opened his eyes he discovered he was in a luxuriant four-poster bed and covered by sheets and blankets. There was a drip feed in his left arm and he automatically reached across to pull it out. The small action caused pain to broadcast all over his body but it didn’t trouble him much; it felt distant and removed. He decided to leave the needle where it was; whatever it was doing seemed to be working and he was okay with that.

It took him a moment to realise he was wearing no shirt and he came close to panic. He lifted the bed covers hastily; relieved beyond measure to find he at least had a pair of boxer shorts on. They looked new; definitely not part of his faded, worn out collection, but he was too dopey to wonder where they’d come from and who’d put them on him. He noticed he was also wearing a lot of bruises and his left side was covered with surgical dressing and tape. It was spotted with blood and, curious, he ran his fingers over the area. He discovered it hurt quite a lot more than the rest of him and decided not to pursue it further. 

Dean looked round the room. It smelled of wood smoke and could only be described as opulent; the panelled oak walls were hung with pictures and tapestries, flames licked in the grate of a stone fireplace and there was a sturdy door to his right. To his left, bay windows overlooked a broad line of trees which marched into the distance as far as he could see, like he was on the edge of a full-blown forest. The sky was low and grey but it was definitely day time; it was also raining hard and Dean could hear it drumming at the glass. The sound was comforting and, coupled with the crack of the fire; he was quickly lulled back to sleep. 

The next time he woke it was dark outside but the rain hadn’t let up. He was still alone in the room, still mostly naked under the sheets but the drip feed was gone. He was more alert now and better prepared for the memories which drifted slowly into his head. He could mostly remember events up to the point he passed out at the skanky house; everything after was a blur of strange voices, bright lights and needles being stuck into him. 

Dean couldn’t even guess at how long he’d been here, though clearly he’d been cared for. He checked the bandage on his side; there was no blood on it now, not so much pain and on impulse he lifted a hand, finding a similar dressing on his head. He felt okay, in a woolly kind of way, and decided it was time to say his goodbyes and get out of this hotel. It was only when he started moving he realised his left ankle was attached to the bed post by a cuff and stout chain. He flopped back onto the pillow. 

“Give me a friggin’ break.”

He spent ten minutes trying to get the damned thing off. The lock was simple enough but there was nothing within his reach to serve as a pick. The chain was three feet long and offered just enough slack to let him stand; which wasn’t such a great idea, all things considered. His legs were like jelly and he sat down hard, scanning the floor for loose nails or anything else that might work on the cuff mechanism. When he heard the door to the room being unlocked he lay down quickly and pulled the covers over himself. He considered feigning sleep but what was the point when he was looking for answers?

He was expecting a man, maybe that asshole Dennis Yates; he certainly wasn’t expecting the slinky-looking chick who glided through the door. She was a little older than him; clad in a low-cut, forest green dress and her ash-blonde hair was piled into an elaborate bun. She looked high end and Dean definitely liked what he saw. She approached the bed and he hitched the covers up to his chin. 

“Welcome back, Dean. How do you feel?”

She had an English accent, which made the whole package even hotter and Dean was seriously side-tracked. He struggled to keep it together. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Destiny.”

The bubble burst with an almost audible pop. “A stripper name, really? And this place looked so classy.”

She smiled. “I’m _your_ Destiny, Dean. Past, present and whatever future you may travel.”

Dean blinked at her. “It’s a little early in the day for riddles, sweetheart. Where am I?”

She ignored the question and sat on the bed beside him. “I’m here to take care of your needs.”

Dean chewed on that for a moment and raised a hopeful eyebrow. “Every need?”

By way of reply she twitched the bedclothes aside, laid a finger on his chest and ran it seductively to his navel. Dean got goose bumps; he couldn’t figure out whether to be elated or friggin’ ecstatic. Her hand traced his tattoo and he noticed the signet ring on her pinky finger. He’d seen the symbol on it before and realised, with a jolt, the douchebags who’d paid for him were wearing the same thing. Clearly he wasn’t out of the woods; he was still a captive, still in danger and the realisation forced his mind towards the most important issue; the small matter of escape. 

“Need number one, darling: I really gotta pee so how about you unlock this chain and show me the men’s room?”

Destiny wasn’t even slightly phased. “I’ve got a better idea.”

She reached under the bed and pulled out a chamber pot. Dean groaned. 

“Are you kidding me?”

She wasn’t kidding; she handed him the pot and waited expectantly until Dean’s face began to redden. “You gonna sit there and watch?”

Destiny got to her feet. “Let me fetch you something while you take care of business. Are you hungry?”

Dean was ravenous but that wasn’t his priority. “How long have I been here?”

“A while... You were hurt; we took care of you.”

Question sidestepped. Dean was about to re-phrase it when his stomach entered the conversation with a loud growl. Destiny smiled.

“What can I get you?”

Right now Dean could have demolished a zoo. His stomach was so empty it felt like it was chewing on itself. “How about a couple of cheese burgers?”

She looked at him blankly and he tried again. “Three?”

Dean knew he probably wouldn’t be getting burgers but Destiny left the room, locking the door after. He really did need a leak so he pulled himself out of bed and emptied his bladder; it hurt like a son of a bitch and he wasn’t surprised to see blood in the pot. He’d taken some hard knocks to his kidneys during the fight in the lot and it wasn’t the first time he’d pissed blood; he doubted it would be the last either. When he was done he tucked the pot under the bed and climbed back in. 

Destiny returned presently carrying a silver tray which held a bowl, half a French stick, a bottle of wine and two glasses. She put the wine and glasses on the night stand and placed the tray in his lap. The bowl contained some kind of beef stew which smelled fantastic but as he made to dig in, instinct made him hesitate. He sniffed cautiously at the food. 

“Am I gonna regret this?”

All he got in response was the same blank look as before. Destiny was beginning to remind him of a Stepford Wife; one whose programming was on the frizz. 

“Is it poisoned?”

She laughed but it sounded mechanical. “Why would we go to the expense of patching you up just to poison you?”

Dean frowned. “Who’s _we?_ ”

She didn’t answer, just pulled the fork from his hand and took a mouthful of food. After that she poured some wine and chugged it. Dean’s mouth dropped open in surprise. 

“Well if you put it like that…”

Dean stuffed his face. The food was rich; something you might order in a swanky restaurant, though he hadn’t experienced too many of those. Destiny gave him the name of the dish but it sounded foreign and he forgot it instantly. It tasted good, there was plenty of it and he finished up in record time, using the last of the bread to wipe the bowl clean. After that he started in on the wine; it wasn’t exactly his drink of choice but he figured any port in a storm. It went down easily; smooth and fruity and half the glass was gone before he knew it. 

Destiny was sitting by the fire, staring into the flames and sipping her own wine in silence. Dean got bored and passed time by studying the unusual-looking wine bottle; coloured gold and decorated ornately. The neck flared at the top into something which looked like a pine cone and there was an animal shape embossed onto the glass. He looked closer and discovered it was some kind of cat; maybe an ocelot or puma. The label on the bottle was also elaborate, a fruiting vine border with spidery script bearing the name _Casa de la Cosecha_. Dean knew it meant House of… whatever but his Spanish was rudimentary at best and he wasn’t in the mood to puzzle out the rest of it. He glanced across at Destiny.

“This is a thrilling conversation.”

She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “What would you like to talk about?”

Dean shrugged. “Just small talk, you know? Unimportant shit like why you abducted me and chained me to a friggin’ bed.”

She stood up and approached. She was beginning to look a little unreal, like he might be dreaming this and Dean shook his head to try and clear it. She sat beside him.

“I knew you’d like the chain.”

Her finger was back on his chest, moving steadily downwards and this time she didn’t stop at his navel; she went lower. She slid her hand beneath the covers and began caressing him lightly through his thin fabric of his boxers. God it felt good. He twitched and inhaled sharply; almost dropping his wine in the process and Destiny intercepted the glass; placing it carefully on the night stand. Her other hand didn’t let up and Dean was having trouble concentrating. 

“Is this some kind of, uh… sex slave deal?”

“I know what you like, Dean.” Her voice was almost a purr. “I know _everything_ about you.”

Even in his advanced state of distraction, Dean wasn’t buying that. “You don’t know jack about me, sister.”

She ignored him and continued her work. Dean was feeling decidedly woozy now and he was getting off on this in a big way. The idea of being her sex slave didn’t sound half bad actually…

Abruptly she stopped what she was doing and he groaned. His libido was racing, taking control and he needed that hand back in position. Destiny pushed the half-empty glass of wine into his hand. 

“Drink.”

The penny dropped with a clunk and Dean cursed himself for being so sluggish on the uptake. “You want me to drink more summer wine? Do I look like a moron?”

There was the blank look again; he was getting used to that. “Destiny, did you grow up on Vulcan?”

A slight frown crossed her face. “What’s Vulcan?” 

“Apparently you did”. Dean gazed at her blearily. “I know when I’ve been roofied, sweetheart. Was it in the wine?”

He realised she was drinking the same wine. “You drank it as well... What the hell?”

Destiny smiled. “It was in the glass but it feels good, doesn’t it? Helps with the pain?”

Dean knew this wasn’t any kind of regular pain medication but he had to agree it felt good. Destiny’s hand was sliding across his stomach, her fingers teasing under the waistband of his shorts as she pressed the glass to his lips. 

“Drink.”

Dean took a sip and felt the hand move fractionally lower. That was her game, huh? He wouldn’t get what he wanted until he’d finished the booze. He thought about it for a moment and figured what the hell; he was far enough gone that the idea of drugged sex was becoming more appealing by the second. He took a gulp of wine and the hand teased lower, nails scratching gently at the hairs above his crotch. Another gulp and he was done; the hand landed at ground zero and Destiny worked him like a pro. Dean reached for the back of her head, pulled her close but she jerked away and slapped his face.

“You don’t get to do that.”

That turned him on even more but he also had what he needed. As she stood and began unzipping her dress, he looked for a safe place to stash the hairpin he’d just lifted. He considered tucking it under the bandage on his side, then realised the dressing might get changed without him being conscious. The fuzziness in his brain was making coherent thought difficult but he got there in the end; he reached under the mattress and pinned it there securely.

Destiny didn’t notice his furtive movements as she slipped out of the dress, revealing a slender figure and the skimpiest of underwear. She climbed onto the bed and straddled him. He winced as her weight pulled on his injuries but he was way past caring about little things like pain. He reached towards her, intending to unhook her bra and she grabbed his wrists, pushing his hands up behind his head. 

“If you don’t keep your hands to yourself I’ll fetch the other chains. Would you like that?”

Dean shook his head but suspected the dopey grin on his face was giving the game away. Destiny gave him the kind of smile which promised heaven, on her terms and his grin widened. It looked like heaven might be just round the corner. 

“I heard England’s a really kinky place.”

Destiny leaned forward and fluttered her tongue against his ear. “Let me give you the tour.”


	8. Chapter 8

Dean was in a place which looked like a drugs den right out of the 1960s. The movie version of it anyway; he was certain he’d never experienced any of this first hand. Smoke was hanging thick in the air; partly due to all the candles, mostly due to the enormous joint in his right hand. There was a glitter ball hanging from the ceiling, table lights draped with scarves and even a lava lamp; a friggin’ sparkly one! _Purple Haze_ was on the turntable; the laid back groove heightened by the pungent smell of patchouli and it brought back memories of a dozen high schools. Sometimes he’d sell dope to the stoner crowd, mark up the merchandise to make a meagre profit and go under the street handle Killer Bud. Dean chuckled at the memory.

The wallpaper in the room was a complete trip in itself; if he looked closely the pattern seemed to shift and move across multiple dimensions, so he concentrated on the posters tacked to the walls. _The Great Escape, Psycho, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Easy Rider, Bonnie and Clyde, Cool Hand Luke…_ It was like a shrine to some of his favourite movies. He wondered what happened to _Fear and Loathing_ then realised it wouldn’t be made for another fifty years; which was a pretty major head fuck. 

He was sprawled on a lurid brown couch; an equally lurid green one was right opposite. Between them was a wooden table with a huge glass bong in the centre and drugs paraphernalia scattered across it. Dean noticed he was barefoot, wearing flared jeans and a tie-die Steppenwolf t-shirt. He looked the part and that would definitely be useful later on; he could hear women giggling and squealing nearby.

Dean felt epic. More chilled and relaxed than he’d felt in… forever. It didn’t bother him that there were no windows or doors in the room and he certainly didn’t care how he got here. He was lost in the moment, digging the music and the ambience. He took a long toke on the joint and exhaled slowly; even the dope was friggin’ great and he rode the head rush for a few blissed out minutes. 

When a man materialised on the couch opposite he felt no surprise. Appearing out of thin air was an amazingly cool move but it took several moments to recognise the crumpled suit and trench coat. Dean took another hit and blew a smoke ring. 

“What do you know, it’s my attorney.”

Castiel was staring round the room, trying to take it all in. God only knew how this would look to an angel, especially such an uptight one. Dean made the peace sign. 

“Welcome to the Mothership, man. Peace, love and random hippy crapitude.”

Cas seemed shell shocked. “Where are we? Who’s in the next room?”

“I’m going out on a limb here but I think it’s some chicks. They sound frisky.” Dean snickered and offered the joint. Cas looked at it blankly.

“Come on man, take a hit.”

Cas was visibly taken aback by his words. “Why would you want to hit me?”

Dean chuckled and took another toke. “This is some boss shit, man.” He examined the joint carefully. “Is this heaven?”

“We’re not in heaven.” It was the first time Cas seemed sure of anything. “This is unlike any dream of yours I’ve experienced before.”

Dean had to agree with him. “I must be loaded; can’t even tell which way’s up any more. You dig?”

“I don’t have a shovel.” Cas leaned forward and there was urgency in his voice now. “Dean, where are you?”

Dean gazed round the room. “You think it’s a scene from some James Bong flick?”

That was _way_ more funny than it should have been and he burst out laughing. The joke went so far over Cas’s head it probably landed in the stratosphere, which only made it funnier. Cas waited for him to finish; he didn’t crack a smile.

“Are you done?”

Dean nodded, working hard to keep a straight face. 

“Listen carefully; Sam sent me. You’ve been missing for two days and he can’t find you. Nobody can, not even me. You have to play _Clue_ with me.”

“You wanna play murder mystery?” Dean was cool with that but Cas seemed monumentally confused. 

“I’m not sure why I said that. Dean, you _have_ to clue me in to your whereabouts.”

Dean struggled with the concept for a while, trying to pull together a few thought fragments from the real world.

“I don’t know, man. I _think_ I’m chained to a bed with some hot English chick taking care of business. Know what I mean?” 

“I believe at this point I’m supposed to remind you how reality is _exactly_ the same as pornography.” Cas sounded sincere but his speech had slowed down and become very deliberate.

Dean grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

Cas looked totally baffled. “Why did I say _that?_ I meant to say, you need to separate reality from pornography.”

“Party pooper.” Dean took another hit and squinted at the angel through the smoke. “I’m giving you the skinny, dude; straight up. There’s this savoury room with some bitchin’, full on nympho nurse bondage action and…”

Cas interrupted. “Why are you speaking in code?”

The six words seemed to stretch out infinitely and Dean gazed at him, mesmerised.

“I dunno, man. Why do you sound like a slowed down record?”

“Dean, where _are_ you?” Cas’s voice was normal again and he sounded exasperated. 

Dean frowned. “Now you sound like a stuck record.”

“Is there something you’ve seen, anything that might help us? Think hard.” 

Dean thought hard and couldn’t shed the image which popped into his head. “That’s got me right back on the porn channel.”

Cas finally lost it. He strode round the table, pulled the joint from Dean’s fingers and stubbed it out on his foot. It burned but Dean barely felt it; he was more concerned with losing his prize possession.

“Whoa there, Terminator; you just smoked Aunt Mary.”

Cas reached down and slapped his hand against Dean’s forehead, harder than necessary. “Concentrate on what you’ve seen.”

The angel mojo helped him focus and Dean replayed a hazy montage of recent events. He sifted through the junk, trying to find something useful. One thing which stood out was the symbol on the ring which every one of his captors had been wearing. 

“Rings.”

“Like _Lord of the Rings?_ ” Cas seemed pleased he’d made a pop culture connection. 

“No Cas, like a friggin’ circus.”

The sarcasm was wasted and Cas’s expression was drifting back towards mystified. Dean tried to straighten him out. 

“The assholes who’ve got me locked down wear ‘em on their pinky fingers; like pledge rings. There’s this symbol…”

He tried to picture the symbol. It wasn’t easy. 

“What does it look like?” Cas sounded impatient and he shrugged helplessly. 

“You expect me to explain?”

Cas waved a hand and pen and paper appeared on the table. Dean was no artist but he was willing to give it his best shot. 

“Let’s see if I can do this.”

He put every spaced-out effort into the drawing but it didn’t turn out as planned. It was taking on the shape of a bong; then it began to look like a cross between the bong and a giant, distorted phallus. Cas looked over his shoulder, way too curious. 

“Is that…?”

Dean screwed up the paper before he could see any more. “Uh, that came out wrong.”

He tried again. This time he managed to draw a rough representation of the design on the rings and he sat back, appraising his work. 

“That looks… pretty far out. What is it?”

Cas shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll make some enquiries.”

Dean grabbed his sleeve. The doped-up fog in his brain had thinned and for a moment he could just about think straight. 

“This is for Sam, right? Tell him I’m locked up somewhere classy; might be a hotel but I’ve got a hunch it’s private. Outside there’s trees, like a forest and it rains all the friggin’ time. Not Forks, okay? They gave me drugged wine in a gold bottle with some kind of cat on it. It was called, uh... Casa de Concheta. That’s all I’ve got.”

Cas nodded curtly. “Can I leave now?”

Dean let go of his coat. The fog was rolling back into his head. 

“Burn rubber, Cas. I don’t think there’s much time.”

Cas vanished. A part of Dean regretted seeing him go but he was way too stoned to dwell on it for long. 

“Hang loose, man.”

He reached for the bong.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam was climbing the walls of the motel. It had been two days, almost to the hour, since he’d last seen Dean and he was nowhere in the vicinity of a solid lead. He’d broken into Jake Matthews’ house and spent a full two hours trawling through receipts, mail and phone bills; even Jake’s ancient desktop computer. All he’d come away with was a brief list of names and phone numbers which he’d cross-referenced back in his room. There was only one which panned out and for all the wrong reasons. Each time he punched the name Dennis Yates into a search engine, it returned a bunch of results for the horror writer Dennis Wheatley. More digging revealed the author’s full name to be Dennis Yates Wheatley, which seemed like somebody flipping him the bird and making a point at the same time. Sam took it as a challenge, but it didn’t help that the cell number scrawled against the name was out of service. The number itself was linked to a pay as you go SIM, available over the counter in any store, and there was no user information attached at all. 

Another dead end; Sam felt like banging his head against the table. He could only hope Castiel had more luck tracking down his brother in dreamland. Cas had taken his sweet time replying to Sam’s voicemail message but he’d come through in the end. He’d been gone for over half an hour now and Sam decided he needed a beer; he almost jumped out of his skin when he discovered the angel standing right behind him.

“Dammit Cas, can’t you come through the door like everybody else?”

Cas stared at him in silence. His eyes looked red.

“Did you get anything?” Sam knew he was being pushy and rude but Cas only shook his head. He seemed confused. 

“It was a strange experience. Dean was not himself; he says he’s been drugged.”

“Dammit.” Sam’s stomach twisted. “What else did he say?”

Cas was distracted, gazing round the room slowly. His eyes flittered everywhere but settled on nothing.

“Cas?”

Cas pulled it together with an effort. “He drew a symbol. It might be helpful.”

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, passed it across and Sam studied it eagerly. It was an odd design, obviously drawn by Dean but shaky looking and surreal. He sighed with frustration. 

“I don’t recognise it. It could be occult.”

He got straight back on the laptop, picture searching magical and demonic symbols but the banging noises coming from behind him were distracting and eventually he turned to look. Castiel was rummaging through drawers and cupboards, shaking down the motel room efficiently and Sam tried several times to get his attention without success. When Cas finally turned round he was clutching a king size bag of potato chips and stuffing them into his mouth. 

Sam frowned. “What are you doing?”

Cas spoke round a mouthful of food. “I believe it’s called the munchies.”

Half an hour later Castiel had given Sam a perplexed, drawn out report of his experiences in Dean’s dream. He’d also cleaned out Dean’s supply of junk food before vanishing. His account had done nothing to alleviate Sam’s concern; Dean was being drugged, was somebody’s captive and there was probably sex involved. He didn’t want to speculate on what it might add up to; instead he threw himself into the research. To save time he called Bobby, emailed him the drawing and gave him Dean’s description of the bottle. Bobby said he’d do some digging into the wine. 

Two hours later Sam identified the symbol. At least, he came across another symbol which looked something like it. Further investigation revealed it was an archaic icon for the god Dyonisus and he almost laughed. He wasn’t sure if it was to relieve the tension or push away the absolute dread he suddenly felt. Now he’d made an initial connection, pieces began falling into place. Dionysus was the Greek God of Wine, the Party God to take it more broadly, and here they were bang in the middle of wine country. At harvest time. 

Sam checked out ancient rites and feasts. There was nothing specifically linked to Dionysus but plenty of festivals and rituals connected to the various harvest deities: Modron, Eona, Persephone, Demeter, Pamona, Morgan… The list was impressive. These gods had been big news, back in the day. 

Sam kept coming across something called _Mabon_ , which turned out to be modern day, neo-pagan crap but had its roots in something older. The Feast of Avalon was a powerful Sabbat and one of four annual equinoxes. It involved a celebration to give thanks for a successful harvest and offer inducements that the earth be similarly fertile and accommodating for next year’s crop. Things went sideways when the crops failed, however. That’s when ritual sacrifice joined the party and Sam was getting a bad feeling. Years of experience and several near misses informed his hunch with clarity. Not to mention the patented Winchester brand of shitty bad luck…

His cell phone rang and caller ID said it was Bobby. He grabbed at it, eager to exchange intel. “What you got?”

“And good freakin’ evening to you as well.” Bobby sounded pissed off and tired.

Sam felt a pang of remorse. After all, Bobby wasn’t his personal research assistant. 

“Sorry man. I’ve been at this all night and there’s not a single lead I can use. Dean could be anywhere.”

Bobby’s voice softened. “I hear you, son, but I think I’ve got something on that screwy wine.”

Sam’s heart rate picked up. “Great. Let’s have it.”

“Casa de Concheta sounds like a Mexican whore house so I figured your genius brother got the name wrong. I made a stretch and discovered a little garage wine called Casa de la Cosecha. It means House of the Harvest.”

Sam knew that; he could also understand Dean’s mistake. “Concheta and Cosecha sound pretty similar…”

“If you’ve got a crank shaft instead of a brain…” Bobby sounded sardonic as hell. “I emailed you a picture. Look familiar?”

Sam picked up the email and opened the attachment. The bottle in the picture was coloured gold and had a cat embossed on the glass, just as Dean described. Sam enlarged the file. He thought the cat was probably a leopard but noticed the bottle also had a flared neck which incorporated a pine cone. The label was decorated with fruiting vines. Dean hadn’t mentioned any of this but Sam realised, with a jolt, they were all attributes of Dyonisus. 

Bobby had more. “It’s a local brew and the prices’ll make your hair fall out. It comes from a place called The Portland Winery, a few counties up from you in Jay. They got offices in Portland itself; you could be there in a couple of hours.”

That sounded like a plan and it gave Sam something positive to focus on. He could check out the company’s client list for starters. Something else occurred to him. 

“Any idea why it costs so much?”

There was a pause before Bobby replied. “It’s a boutique wine; a licence to print money from what I can tell. Why? You found something?”

Sam wasn’t sure. “That picture Dean drew turns out to be an old symbol for the god Dyonisus. Leopards, pine cones and fruiting vines are part of his logo.” 

“And they’re all on the bottle.” Bobby sounded exasperated. “I’ve been at this thing way too long. I should have spotted a connection that size.”

Sam tried to appease him. “You weren’t looking for it, and you did great with the wine…”

“Don’t patronise me, boy.”

Sam’s face burned as he continued. “There’s a whole bunch of modern festivals based round the harvest, like this thing called Mabon, but centuries ago…”

Bobby interrupted. “…Those things were heavy duty. The harvest gods had serious mojo but they were petulant, demanding little bitches. It took all kinds of tributes and sacrifices to keep ‘em happy.”

Sam felt queasy. Sacrifice was a word he didn’t want to acknowledge; but he also had to admit it was a real possibility. “Blood sacrifice only happened when the crop failed, right?”

Bobby was silent for a spell. “I think we’ve got to assume the worst, Sam. The timing’s damned near perfect, ain’t it?”

Sam didn’t get it. “Timing?”

“Tomorrow night’s the autumn equinox, the Feast of Avalon; the Queen Mother of harvest festivals.”

Sam cursed. How had he not made _that_ connection?

“You’d best get a wiggle on.” Bobby’s voice was too calm and Sam knew it was purely for his benefit. “Head over to Portland first thing and tell me what you get.”

Sam didn’t get much sleep. He worked on the laptop until his eyes were too blurry to focus, searching for anything related to The Portland Winery. His findings were not encouraging. In May this year late frosts destroyed many of Indiana’s vines and even though prices were at an all-time premium, supply was virtually tapped out. They clearly couldn’t afford another bad year but were they really prepared to commit murder just to be sure?

Sam didn’t think so. The company, its owners and affiliates checked out, the whole business was legitimate and properly registered. There was no Dennis Yates on their staff and nothing in the press or marketing to suggest Casa de la Cosecha was anything more than a highly successful gimmick. Their client list was offline, to protect customer integrity. On a hunch he pulled up some county maps, looking for large tracts of forest. No luck there either; most of Jay County was given over to agriculture. 

It took several hours to drive up to Portland next day. Traffic was bad and it was gone eleven when he finally pulled up to the Portland Winery offices, stressed and anxious. He’d put on a suit for the occasion and posed as Deputy Marshal Cogburn again in order to requisition their client list. The office manager wasn’t happy about passing it over, even to aid a federal investigation and insisted on checking with his manager before he released the records. The whole thing got referred upwards several times for approval, nobody willing to take responsibility and it was close to 1pm when Sam finally got the paperwork. 

The list was longer than he’d expected; nearly two thousand clients with over two hundred in the state of Indiana alone. The office manager confirmed they were all regular buyers of Casa de la Cosecha and Sam commandeered the office fax machine in order to get the pages over to Bobby. He called on the drive back, telling Bobby to focus on addresses in Indiana and cross-reference them against locations with forests and mountains nearby. A mountain range might explain all the rain Dean mentioned. At this stage, anything was worth a try.

Sam floored the accelerator. If he drove hard he could make it back to Rising Sun by 4.30. His first port of call was Joolz McGuire; the kid was supposed to find people but Sam had deliberately left off visiting until he’d exhausted all other possibilities. If Joolz was a fake he’d be truly stiffed and, with the way his luck was running, he’d be lucky if the kid could find his own ass with two hands and a flashlight. 

The autumn equinox was here. Sam could feel time ticking away perceptibly.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean’s reality had shrunk to the size of a bed; things happened to him and around him but they were hazy and unreal. Destiny brought him food and water but no more wine. She revved him up and rode him hard whenever he was alert enough to respond, which wasn’t helping his recovery any, but Dean couldn’t tell the difference between wakefulness and sleep anymore. Day and night blurred into one but he was too doped up to do anything about it. One time he became aware of men in the room, discussing him while a doctor checked him over and tried to stick a needle in his arm. He realised that’s how they were drugging him when he resisted; he was pinned down and the injection administered forcibly.

When he finally woke with a relatively clear head Dean thought he was still dreaming. Everything seemed sharp, intense and super-real though he was still in the same room, alone and shackled to the bed. He prodded at the bandage on his side, to get a perspective on reality and the pain proved too real for any of this to be a delusion. The wound was still fresh and raw enough to inform him he probably hadn’t been here as long as it might have seemed. 

Outside it was daytime, the sky its customary shade of gunmetal grey and it was raining. No surprises there, but it all added to Dean’s uncertainty and he shook his head in irritation. It didn’t matter how long he’d been here, what mattered was getting out. One of his many waking dreams filtered back and he seemed to recall lifting a hairpin from Destiny. He felt under the mattress, certain he’d imagined it and was surprised to find it tucked securely in the fabric. 

Now he was getting somewhere. Dean sat up; riding the rush of vertigo then picked the lock on the cuff in a minute flat. He got out of bed gingerly, conscious of his various injuries and stood slowly, testing his legs. They seemed to be working okay and he crossed to the windows. His view from the bed had been limited and all he’d seen was trees; now he could see a long lawn stretching towards a pine forest and that’s where he needed to be. He was certain he could lose any pursuers in the trees, easy as that, once he found a way down there.

He was still clad only in boxers but they’d changed colour on him. An abstract memory involving a bed bath crept up and he forced it away; he didn’t want to think about that, _ever_. He found his clothes on a chair by the fire; washed and pressed but ripped and bearing faint bloodstains. When he went through his pockets there was nothing in them; he’d been totally cleaned out. He dressed quickly; welcoming the feeling of empowerment it gave him, then discovered the en-suite bathroom. 

He stared at himself in the mirror for a while before admitting he looked like shit. There were bruises all over his face, a bandage taped across his forehead and his skin was way too pale. His eyes were bloodshot and his pupils were the size of friggin’ quarters. Whatever drug they’d been using was still in his bloodstream and he promptly stuck his head under the cold faucet. He gasped as icy water shocked his system awake but stayed under until his ears went numb. It seemed to do the trick though; chasing the last remnants of fog from his brain. 

Dean approached the bedroom door cautiously. He knew it was kept locked and listened intently for sounds of anybody standing guard outside. He couldn’t be certain he was alone but had to take the risk. He turned to his trusty hairpin, quietly picked the lock then pulled the door open fast, ready to attack. There was nobody out there and he peered up and down a broad, panelled hall, as plush and ornate as the bedroom. If Dean didn’t know better he’d be putting this down as a seriously high class yoga retreat. Sam would love it. 

He crept down the hall, grateful for the deep pile carpet which absorbed the sound of his footsteps, every sense straining for signs of threat or danger. He came to the top of a vast oak staircase which overlooked an extravagant entrance lobby and stood for a while, listening hard. All he could hear was the tick of the grandfather clock beside him and its face showed him the time was just after 4.15. A couple of minutes later he made his move, going down the stairs fast and bent almost double. At the bottom he took cover below the staircase and surveyed the lobby. Two huge doors opened onto a gravel driveway, clearly the main entrance to the house but instinct told Dean that wasn’t the way to go. There were a couple of expensive cars out there, which might mean drivers and he needed to find someplace less obvious to make his break.

A chance presented itself when he heard a bang somewhere in the depths of the house. Shortly after a man in chef’s whites opened a door into the lobby, walked briskly across it and vanished down a hallway. Dean was tempted to follow, try and find out exactly where he was being held but he could do that from the safety of a computer in a different state. Right now he had to focus on getting the hell out. 

He darted across the lobby and ducked through the same door the chef had used. He followed a narrow corridor which finished at a set of metal swing doors. He looked through one of the portholes and discovered a kitchen on the other side, though it wasn’t a regular one. This looked like something you’d find in a successful restaurant; all stainless steel and white tiles, so clean you could eat dinner off the floor. There were pots and pans bubbling on top of industrial ranges and a variety of exotic smells reached Dean’s nose. His mouth watered; whatever was cooking in there smelled fantastic. There was also enough of it to feed a football stadium.

The place seemed empty but Dean was aware the chef might be back at any time. He spotted a glass door on the other side of the room; it opened into the yard and seemed like the perfect exit route. He was halfway towards it when a man’s voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t sound hostile, only curious and Dean turned slowly. He found himself looking at a short, chubby guy in a chequered apron and hat. He was holding a frying pan and Dean was uncomfortably aware of the damage something like that could do. He forced a smile onto his face. 

“I followed my nose. This stuff smells pretty good.”

“This is the commercial kitchen; staff don’t come here to eat.” The man’s brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

Dean approached him casually, still smiling. “I’m new. Still haven’t gotten my head round all the rules, you know?”

The man’s eyes flickered across his face and up to the bandage on his head. His suspicion was obvious but also far too late. Dean punched him right on the jaw and he staggered and went down hard. The frying pan hit the deck with an echoing crash and Dean cursed. Everybody would have heard that. 

He ran for the kitchen door and threw back the bolts. There was a few hundred yards of lawn between the house and the treeline and he’d need to be damned quick if he went that way. As he was contemplating sneaking round the edge of the house, trying for a less exposed route into the forest he heard voices approaching. Now he had no choice. 

He yanked the door open and nearly jumped out of his skin as an alarm went off; so friggin’ loud he was sure they’d hear it in the next state. The approaching voices started shouting and Dean took off. 

He sprinted across the lawn, taking the shortest line towards the forest. His legs were willing but they weren’t moving as quickly as he needed. The grass was wet and slippery; hindering his progress and heavy rain was lashing into his face, almost blinding him on occasion. Pain lanced his side every time he brought his left foot down and he could still hear men yelling. That helped spur him onwards but he was slowing down and struggling for breath. His heart was pounding and his lungs burning; he was getting dizzy but to hell with it. Sheer, bloody determination would get him where he needed to be. 

He was approaching the trees when he heard barking. Since his stint in Hell, Dean had grown to hate that sound and he threw a panicky glance over his shoulder. The two Rottweilers chasing him down definitely weren’t hellhounds; they were visible for a start, but the sight terrified him. Whatever residual drug was still in his system sharpened the dread and for a moment he was flat on his back in New Harmony, clinging to the last dregs of life as razor sharp teeth and vicious jaws ripped him apart. 

Dean forced the memory back into the hole where he kept it locked. It wasn’t real, not this time but the moment’s distraction was enough to make him loose his footing. He slipped, went down hard and seconds later the dogs were on him. They growled and circled but didn’t attack, which was a small mercy. Dean saw two men approaching and as they got close, he recognised them as The Tweeds. Dennis Yates’ personal thugs. He tried to get up and one of the dogs seized his lower leg in its jaws. It didn’t bite, but applied enough pressure to let him know this was a first and final warning. The bastard was well trained. 

The Tweeds arrived, panting hard and for a surreal moment Dean found himself scrutinised by four faces. Two human, two canine. It was beyond comic and he couldn’t help himself.

“You know something? You’re all ugly sons of bitches.”

One of the Tweeds kicked him in the ribs. “Shut the fuck up, Winchester. I’ve got better things to do than chase you down in the rain.”

Dean sneered. “Like pressing flowers with your ugly sister here? Sorry Cinders, I ain’t sitting round like a dick while you jack me up and crank your shank.”

That earned him another kick. This one connected with the wound in his side and Dean knew it wasn’t accidental. He felt some of the stiches tear and he grimaced and swore. The other Tweed squatted low and punched him in the mouth. 

“You’re one dumb son of a bitch. We tried to make it easy, but you still had to do things your way.”

A second blow connected with Dean’s cheekbone. “Got anything else to say, wise ass?”

Dean squinted through watering eyes and it was a real effort to speak. “You thought I was gonna roll over and play dead?”

The Tweed laughed. “No sweet cheeks. That comes later.”

They yanked him to his feet and dragged him back to the house.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean had recovered some of his composure by the time they approached the house. The Tweeds had a tight grip on his arms but he didn’t bother resisting. The knife wound in his side was hurting like hell, it was bleeding again and he really didn’t need any more pain. 

Now he’d gotten a good view of the house he could appreciate the size of it. It was on three levels with wings running off to the left and right of the main building. The whole structure was made from a light, sandstone block and it was weathered and old. He was led along the gravel driveway and towards the main entrance. As they were going up the steps to the doors he noticed words engraved in the stone arch above them. 

Pine House. 

It wasn’t much to go on, seemed obvious considering the house stood right next to a pine forest but it was the first real clue to his whereabouts. They crossed the entrance lobby he’d seen earlier and the Tweeds escorted him down a plush hallway, stopping outside a door halfway along. One of them knocked, stuck his head into the room and exchanged a few words with somebody inside. He nodded at his buddy and Dean was pushed inside. 

It looked like a high class office with panelled walls, expensive carpeting and polished wood furniture. Dennis Yates was sitting behind a mahogany desk, typing something on a laptop computer. He was wearing a fine, auburn-coloured suit and embroidered on the pocket of his blazer was the same symbol they all wore on their signet rings. He glanced up as Dean was shoved into a chair opposite the desk.

“You didn’t care for our hospitality? We went to enormous efforts…”

Dean shrugged. “What can I say? Bondage is over-rated.” 

Yates arched an eyebrow. “That’s not the way I heard it.”

Dean coughed and squirmed, unable to hide his embarrassment. “That Destiny chick ain’t exactly reliable. Why do you keep her jacked up like that?”

“She prefers it that way.”

Yates sounded on the level and it took Dean by surprise. He pondered the implications for a moment before something more pressing occurred to him. “Why’d you stop doping me?”

Yates smiled enigmatically. “We need you alert. It’s more entertaining.”

One of the Tweeds sniggered. Dean didn’t like the way this was going and he tried to get up. Two heavy hands landed on his shoulders and slammed him back onto the chair. He eyed Yates cautiously.

“So you gonna connect the dots? Tell me what the hell I’m doing here?”

Yates gazed at him for a long moment. He seemed to be considering something. “Do you know today’s date?”

Dean shrugged. “I’ve been a little busy tripping the light fantastic.”

Yates continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “It’s September twenty first; the autumn equinox and Feast of Avalon. Once it was a time to give thanks to the harvest gods for good crops; seek their blessings for the planting year ahead. Now it’s an excuse for neo-hippies to celebrate Mabon and slide down greasy poles in their panties. Meanwhile in the lower forty eight, middle aged men open their wallets for Harvest Home; a worthy, _Christian_ cause.”

Dean smirked. “I bet they’d rather watch the hippies.”

One of the Tweeds cuffed him round the head but Dean barely felt it; he was busy doing the math. He remembered getting to Rising Sun on September 18th which meant he’d been locked up here for three days. He couldn’t account for most of that time which was worrying enough, but why in hell hadn’t Sam found him yet?

Yates was watching him disapprovingly. “If you want answers I suggest you keep your mouth shut and listen. We prefer to do things the old fashioned way and _our_ God, Dionysus, is going to get a proper tribute.”

Dean knew something about Dionysus from the lore books. “The god of good times, huh? He’s losing his touch because I’ve gotta tell you, pal; this party blows.”

That earned him a harder cuff and Yates frowned. 

“This year our God was displeased with his devout followers and the grapes failed. We were compelled to ask ourselves not only how we disappointed him, but what we should do to appease him and earn his blessing.”

He smiled smugly. “We answered those questions as tradition dictates. Next year he’ll repay our devotion with bountiful harvests. He’ll reward us with gifts, favours and…”

Dean couldn’t believe he was hearing this bullshit. “Did you just read that off an idiot board?”

Yates was getting riled, which is what he was shooting for. “Watch your manners, boy. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

The mention of his mom made Dean smart but he wasn’t about to drag something so precious into this sorry conversation. Yates looked ready to pick up the tedious monologue again and he got in first. 

“Enough with the never ending story; I get the picture. Suck up to the gay god of booze, claim a free butt plug, right?”

Yates jerked his head at the Tweeds and a fist landed in Dean’s guts. He wasn’t ready for it, which made it even worse. He doubled up in pain, struggling for breath and trying not to puke. Yates waited patiently for him to recover then continued as though nothing had happened. 

“Dionysus demands we offer something special in return for his blessing. We’re honoured to be giving it to him.”

Dean knew what was coming. Last time he’d wound up as an offering to some insignificant god was six years ago. That was in Indiana as well.

“We’re talking sacrifice, right?” He sighed heavily. “Not this crap again. Tell me it doesn’t involve friggin’ apples?”

Yates looked at him with pity. “Tell me you know the difference between wine and cider?”

Dean just shook his head, incredulous. “Don’t you morons ever get tired of spreading ‘em for gods who can’t get it up anymore?”

Yates held up a finger to silence him. “You’re astute, Dean, I give you that. I suppose everybody’s got one redeeming feature and you’re quite correct, tonight we’ll be making a blood sacrifice. Unfortunately for you it’s going to be… you.”

“Gee, I never saw that coming.”

Yates ignored the sarcasm. “We don’t enjoy taking life, even one as miserable as yours, which is why we tried to make your final days on earth enjoyable.”

Dean snorted. “Bullshit. You were fattening me up for the kill.”

“Think whatever you like, Dean; but our God is very specific. It has to be you.”

“Because I’m special?” Dean didn’t get it. “How am I special?”

Yates smiled. “You’ve been to Hell, son. As sacrifices go that carries one hell of a kick.”

Dean was stunned. He hadn’t seen _that_ one coming. “You know about that?”

Yates shrugged. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Dean stared at him. None of this made any sense. “It wasn’t your Hell.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Dean was shaken. How did this bastard know about Hell? Who had he been talking to, who was he working with? He tried not to let on how rattled he felt but Yates read him like a dime novel.

“You’re wondering how we know so much about it? You happen to be sitting in the headquarters of an exclusive, well-connected wine club and we have fingers in every pie.”

“Only in the pie?” Dean smirked. “You’re telling me there’s no freaky rituals, secret hazing dungeons, grown dudes dressed in diapers…?” 

Yates looked seriously pissed now. Dean knew he was going to regret it but he was on a roll. “This ain’t no wine club, buddy; it’s a minor league cult.”

This time he was punched in the mouth, hard enough to knock him off the chair. The Tweeds scraped him off the carpet and shoved him back into his seat. Yates watched impassively. 

“Do yourself a favour, Dean. Shut up.”

Dean wiped blood off his chin. “It won’t work.”

Yates seemed amused now. “Really?”

“I’ve crossed paths with your so-called gods. They were total douche nozzles but you know what else? They were weak. Nothing but pathetic, bickering assholes; swinging their dicks and jonesing for the good old days.”

Yates nodded sagely, completely unaffected by his words. Dean laid it on thicker.

“There’s a bigger game in town and that’s where the real action’s going down. Your bitch Dionysus ain’t got enough juice even for the buy in.”

“ _You’re_ the juice, son.” Yates sounded bored and had the audacity to look at his watch. Dean glowered at him. 

“Which part of won’t work are you having trouble with, numb nuts?” 

Yates waved his hand dismissively. “Let’s give it the benefit of the doubt, shall we? You’re top of the bill tonight, Dean and I don’t intend to disappoint the crowd. Doors are at midnight.”

Dean smirked. “Dionysus is big on cheesy clichés, huh?”

Yates nodded at the Tweeds and they yanked him to his feet. The blow to his right kidney was hard enough to drop him and he landed on his knees, incapacitated by pain. He heard Yates’ voice from somewhere above him. 

“Take him to the green room.”

He was dragged from the office. Most of Dean’s attention was occupied with the screaming agony in his lower back, but he was aware of being pulled through a maze of halls, passages and finally down a stone flight of stairs. They wound up in a cavernous, subterranean room with a high ceiling. Wooden barrels and racks of bottles stretched in all directions and there was a distinctive smell of booze. Apparently they’d reached Pine House’s well stocked wine cellar.

There was a pair of dark oak doors at the far end of the room and both had the familiar symbol carved into them. Based on his new intel, Dean figured it was some kind of logo for Dionysus. He was dragged close enough to see intricate texts adorning the ancient wood but then the Tweeds peeled off to the right. There was a small door set into the wall and they opened it and shoved Dean through with so much force he nearly fell over. 

A powerful light was switched on revealing a tiny, bare room. The walls and floor were made of stone, there was no window, it smelled musty and it was damned cold. It reminded Dean of a tomb. A second later the door slammed closed and he heard bolts being shot into place. The light was switched off, plunging him into total darkness. 

He slumped against the wall, feeling like death warmed over. 

“Awesome.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sam shagged ass from Portland and made it back to Rising Sun just after 5pm. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and it only got worse when he pulled up outside Joolz McGuire’s house. Even if the kid could locate Dean, and it was a big if, there was no saying he’d get to wherever his brother was being held in time to save him. 

The house was out in the suburbs, a smart looking two storey with a manicured lawn and an SUV in the driveway. Sam knocked on the front door and had an intimidating close encounter with Joolz’s mom. She took him for a reporter and was a long way from friendly. She lightened up slightly when he showed her his marshal’s badge and explained how her son could be helpful in a federal investigation, but it still took a lot of sweet talking to get inside the house. 

She showed him up to Joolz’s room and informed him he had fifteen minutes to conduct his business; after that she was coming in. Sam didn’t hang around, not on a schedule like that but when he knocked on the door he got no answer. He tried again, with similar lack of success before letting himself in quietly. 

The tangle of posters covering the walls revealed Joolz was into the likes of Nirvana, Green Day, Rage and Jane’s Addiction. Cool tastes, if somewhat retro but an electric guitar and amplifier in the corner implied he took music a lot more seriously than most. Joolz himself was sprawled on the bed, engrossed in a noisy game on an iPad. He had a flashy haircut with orange streaks, was wearing a Foo Fighters tee and Sam was convinced he’d find make-up in the kid’s bathroom. He seemed the type. The window was wide open and letting in a good breeze, but couldn’t mask the distinctive odour of old socks and marijuana. Sam supposed all teenage boys’ rooms smelled like this, though he didn’t have much experience in the matter. 

Joolz got the shock of his life when he glanced up and found Sam standing in the doorway. He scrambled off the bed, looking outraged. 

“What the hell? Get out of my room, dick wad.”

Sam held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m not…”

“Don’t sweat it, man. I know you’re not a fake reporter; I can smell those douches a mile off.” Joolz eyed him curiously. “You’re different. You’re on a hunt.”

“Hunt?”

Sam was shaken; not only because the kid seemed to have guessed his real motive for being here. If Joolz could spot fake reporters, could he also spot a fake marshal? He pulled himself together; reminded himself how psychic shit didn’t usually work on him and kept his game face on. Joolz was sizing him up. 

“You’re a marshal, right? Primary function of the Marshals Service is to hunt fugitives.” He pointed to a poster near his bed, well hidden among all the band stuff. “This thing’s friggin’ awesome.”

Sam took a closer look. The poster was for a TV show called _Justified_ and carried a picture of some dude in a white hat. He’d never seen the show but, judging from the badge on the guy’s belt, it had something to do with the marshals. He flashed his own ID; certain Joolz would recognise the name Reuben Cogburn if he caught sight of it; then pocketed it quickly. 

“Did you, uh, sense I was a marshal?”

Joolz grinned. “Nah; heard you talking to my mom downstairs.”

He went to the window and looked into the street. The Impala was parked right in front of the house and Joolz whistled softly.

“Thought I heard a V8 out there. That’s a sweet ride, man; what is she?”

“Vintage Chevy Impala. It’s been in the family a while.”

Joolz turned to him with a smirk. “Bet she wasn’t vintage when you were born, huh?”

Sam tried not to be offended by the casual over-estimation of his age and brushed the insult aside. He stayed in character and put some gravitas into his voice.

“Joolz, I’m here because I need your help. I understand you can locate people?”

The smirk widened into a grin and now Joolz seemed wired. “I knew you were coming. I mean, I wasn’t expecting Chewbacca but I knew _someone_ was coming. I get this… this itch I can’t scratch and it drives me crazy. Usually it means somebody’s gone missing, and somebody’ll come knocking.”

Sam grasped the opportunity with both hands. “Somebody did go missing. His name’s Dean Torrence and he’s a fugitive from the justice system, wanted on two counts of first degree murder. He’s...” 

Joolz interrupted. “Does this mean I’m working for the marshals? I’m thinking of applying you know? This’ll look immense on the form.”

The kid was yammering fast enough to trip over his words and now Sam understood why the room smelled so strongly of dope. The conversation was drifting away from him and he struggled to maintain control.

“That’s great, Joolz, but I really need…”

Joolz steamrollered right over him. “You got a picture of this Dean Torrence?”

Sam found a photo on his cell phone. It was an embarrassing shot; Dean was drunk and pulling his Blue Steel special right into the lens. Sam had taken the picture in a bar last week, at his brother’s insistence and a minute later some chick’s boyfriend had punched Dean in the face. He didn’t want to remember how the rest of the evening had gone down. 

Joolz took the phone and studied the picture. He didn’t seem impressed. “What’s his problem?”

Sam shrugged. “Confidence issues; he acts up for the camera.”

Joolz snorted. “Dude looks like Bieber before he went, you know… _badass._ ” 

He handed the phone back. “What does a federal marshal need me for? Finding people’s your job isn’t it?”

Sam nodded. “It is, but things have gotten a little awkward. See I was working prisoner transport, taking Dean Torrence over to Pendleton and he kind of… got away.”

Joolz laughed. “Like when Raylan lost Roley Pike? Awesome. Did he bail when you stopped for ice cream?”

Sam had no idea what he was talking about but now he was on edge. How did he end up posing as a marshal for a kid with a boner for the Marshals Service? 

“Uh no, he didn’t but look… he’s in the wind right now and I’d really like to get this situation back on track before, you know, the Chief catches on.”

Joolz grinned. “I get it. Don’t want to drop a pay grade huh?” His expression turned shifty. “Marshals are on pretty good scratch; I’m guessing you’ll want to make this worth my while?”

Sam sighed, realising he’d just been played. He took some bills from his wallet and handed them across. Joolz looked suspicious, like he knew full well there was more in there and Sam gave him a stony look.

“Don’t push it, kid…”

Joolz pocketed the cash quickly. “Give me something he touched.” 

Sam pulled out Dean’s cell phone and passed it over. Joolz flinched as he took it then inspected it closely. “There was blood on it, right? _His_ blood?”

Sam nodded, watching the kid curiously. Joolz didn’t zone out or pull any of the amateur dramatic crap he associated with bogus psychics; just sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the phone for a while before he started talking.

“He lost this outside a bar. He was fighting with these dudes and…” He clutched at his left side, face screwed up in pain. “One of ‘em cut him…”

He went quiet for a spell but carried on staring. “He’s in this skanky yard and… oh fuck, I can’t breathe.”

Joolz began convulsing and his face turned red. Alarmed, Sam hurried across the room and slapped him hard on the back. It jerked him out of the vision and he dropped the phone. He was fighting for breath and clamped his arms across his chest. 

“It’s like a friggin’ curse. Only seeing fragments of the crap these poor bastards go through, trying to put the rest together. Imagining…”

Sam felt guilty. The kid was too young to be involved in this kind of shit but then he reminded himself; you were _always_ too young. On top of that he was angry. What the hell had those bastards done to his brother?

Joolz pulled it together quickly and seemed embarrassed. “Sorry, man; didn’t mean to go all _Hannah Montana_ on you.” 

He picked the phone off the floor and got back into his groove. A minute later he was bright red again, though he didn’t seem to be in any kind of distress. It made Sam uneasy. 

“What can you see?”

“There’s a bedroom, a hot chick and…” There was a long pause and then Joolz chuckled. “This is like free porn.” 

A broad grin spread across his face. “This dude’s pretty athletic. Did you know he could…”

Sam really _didn’t_ want to hear about that. “Joolz, try to focus.”

The kid’s smile vanished abruptly. “Who’s Cas?”

“He’s a colleague. He’s trying to help.”

Joolz frowned. “Looks like he’s about to flash someone.”

Sam had heard enough snarky cracks for one day. “Do you think you could concentrate on the important stuff?” 

Joolz scowled. “Back off, man; this is a process. Do you hear me telling you how to do _your_ job?”

Sam bit back a retort and Joolz stared at the phone for a while longer, turning it over in his hands. “Okay he’s blitzed. Uh… scratch that, he’s stoned... he’s flying… still on it… Man, whatever it is I want some.”

Sam put a note of warning into his voice. “Joolz…”

“Chill out, man… Okay now he’s running, flat out Jesse Owens. He’s headed for some trees… more like a forest actually. He’s shit scared but he’s nearly there and, uh… damn!”

Sam was startled. “What?”

“The dogs got him. Now he’s talking to some creepy old guy in an orange suit and uh…” He glanced up at Sam, surprised. “Everything’s gone black.”

Sam’s stomach knotted up and his legs went to jelly. He fought to stay upright, control his panic and stay professional. “Is he dead?”

Joolz was watching him with a peculiar expression. “I don’t think so; it’s a lot creepier when they’re dead. I’m pretty sure he’s still kicking.”

Sam felt only slight relief. “Do you know where he is? This is really important?”

Joolz seemed frustrated. “I usually find people when there’s a sign or landmark in the vision, something which shows where they’re at. This guy Dean’s in a big house with trees all round but there’s nothing else. No towns, no road signs, nada.”

Sam pulled Dean’s drawing from his pocket and held it up. “Did you see this?”

“Yeah, maybe... “Joolz took the paper and studied it closely. “It was on the pocket of the old dude’s coat. What is it?”

“A clue, maybe.”

Sam ran his hands through his hair, anxious and afraid. This had been his last hope and he’d drawn yet another blank. Joolz was watching with something like sympathy.

“You’re close to Dean, right?”

Sam looked at him sharply. “Was that in your vision?”

Joolz shook his head. “Sometimes I just read people… Look, this crap isn’t set in stone. I can keep trying; see if there’s any more. Can I keep the phone?”

Sam shook his head. Dean’s phone was full of porn and while it would probably seem tame compared with what Joolz witnessed in his vision, he couldn’t risk leaving it here. He dug in his pocket for Dean’s Zippo and passed it over. Joolz played with it for a while, flicking the flame on and off.

“Who is he really, man?”

Something occurred to Sam and he used it as an opportunity to sidestep the question. 

“What did you mean earlier about fake reporters?”

Joolz shrugged. “They put on a show, published the stories and all but they didn’t give a rat’s ass about those missing people. All they wanted was for someone special to read those newspapers and come to town.”

Sam didn’t get it. “Someone special? Who?”

“No clue, but I figured a US Marshal might be interested.”

Sam was definitely interested. “How do you know all this, Joolz?”

“I guess this whole psychic trip spills over into real life sometimes.” Joolz offered a weak smile. “I never asked for it, man. I wish to God I could just go back to being normal again.”

Sam could relate; he also knew it wasn’t going to happen. The ability Joolz possessed was only going to suck him in deeper, might wind up getting him killed some day. He smiled reassuringly. 

“Ride the rap, kid.”

An idea was forming in the back of his mind; a suspicion based round something Joolz had said. Just as it was about to clarify his cell phone rang and Bobby’s caller ID popped up. He hurried into the hall and closed the bedroom door behind him.

“Bobby? What you got?”

“Other than a migraine, you mean?” Bobby sounded cantankerous and stressed. “I’ve been staring at maps on a computer for four hours straight. That’s just what the doctor ordered.”

Sam didn’t have time to humour him. “Did you find anything?”

He heard glass clink and something being poured. Bobby took a gulp of whatever he was drinking tonight. 

“After checking _all_ two hundred addresses, I narrowed it down to five possibles. They’re all impressive dwellings, generous acreage, pleasant forest locations, jack squat for miles around...”

Sam interrupted. “Are any of them close?”

“Nope, so listen up.”

Bobby reeled off the addresses and Sam wrote them down. He stared at them, mentally picturing their locations and realised they were spread all over Indiana, miles away from each other. 

“I can’t check all these; the feast’s going down tonight.” Sam knew how used up and desperate he sounded, but Bobby didn’t sound much better. 

“Pick a number. You might get lucky.”

“Dean’s about to die and that’s the best you’ve got?” 

Bobby sighed. “I’ll help any way I can, son, but I’m three states away.”

Sam was flat out of ideas. “Are there any hunters close by?”

“Nobody closer than Lexington, Kentucky.”

It seemed like all the fates were conspiring against them. Sam was close to losing it and slammed his fist into the nearest wall. “Dammit!”

A second later Joolz threw his bedroom door open, still clutching the Zippo. 

“This thing gives _way_ better readings. Does Pine House mean anything?”

Sam had definitely heard the name. He couldn’t place it but was overwhelmed by so many emotions he could barely think straight. “Uh, it rings a bell…”

Bobby’s sardonic voice filtered through the speaker of his cell phone. “Pine House is on the shortlist, dumbass. Six hours away if you motor.”

Joolz was watching Sam warily. “Something’s happening at midnight and it ain’t looking good.”


	13. Chapter 13

Dean paced the floor of the cell. He did it by counting steps since it was too dark to see his hand in front of his face. Six paces forward, turn round, six paces back and every one of them hurt. With adrenalin pumping through his system earlier, he hadn’t really felt the punches and kicks delivered by the Tweeds. Now he could feel everything but he didn’t stop moving; it was the only thing keeping him sane. He wasn’t only in a dark place physically; with nothing to kick against, no means of escape, all he could do was think. It was worse if he sat down; then the walls of the cold, stone tomb seemed to close in on him, like he was dead and buried already.

Dean wasn’t afraid of dying, he’d had the sorry experience enough times to know the score; it was what came after that terrified him. He took little comfort in the fact his most recent encounter, on the wrong end of a point-blank shotgun blast, delivered him to heaven. That had been part of a bigger plan, courtesy of the God squad and before things up there went to shit. 

He couldn’t help thinking how the other place was a more likely destination, how he might still be in debt to somebody in the basement. Lilith was gone but that didn’t mean his contract was cancelled. Those bastards in Hell excelled in lies and manipulation and if he wound up back in the pit, nobody would come rescue him this time round. 

Dean’s hopes of rescue were dwindling by the minute but, all the same, he couldn’t help wondering what Sam was doing. Three days was long enough for a seasoned hunter to locate somebody… _anybody_ , and anything more than two was sloppy in Dean’s book. Sam had apparently managed to get Castiel back on the payroll as well but, just as he was beginning to get mad, Dean reined it in. He reminded himself that if _he_ didn’t have a clue where he was being held, how was his brother supposed to find him? That led him straight back to the bleak certainty he was going to die and the whole thing went round in a vicious circle. With every rotation Dean got more desperate, more convinced he was breathing his last hours on earth and nobody was coming to help him. 

It was around 4.30pm when he’d been locked in here, the ritual was going down at midnight and Dean had absolutely no idea how much time he had left. At some point the door was opened briefly and food was tossed into the room. He had no appetite but he ate it for the distraction and because he was damned if he was going to die on an empty stomach. He couldn’t see what it was, probably something the dogs didn’t want, but he choked it down anyway. 

He asked Castiel for help. He prayed for help. Eventually he got down on his knees and, because there was nobody else to see, begged for it. None was forthcoming. Thanks to the damned sigils carved all over his ribs no angel could locate him unless given a precise location. The only way Cas could communicate was in a dream and there was no way on earth Dean could sleep now, even if he wanted to. 

At some point he became aware of activity outside the cell. He stopped pacing and put his ear to the door. It sounded like a bunch of people out there, talking and laughing and he could hear the clink of glasses. If he didn’t know better Dean would have said it was some kind of celebration but, the more he listened, the more he became convinced that’s _exactly_ what was going down. Now he had something to really get mad about; those sick bastards were having a friggin’ party, then they were going to watch him die bloody.

When the bolts on the door were eventually pulled back, Dean braced himself against the furthest wall of the cell. He planned on throwing himself at whoever came inside, take one final shot at resistance and let the whole crew know he wasn’t going down without a struggle. But he’d reckoned without the overhead light. When it was switched on it almost blinded him and he threw an arm across his eyes, off balance and cursing. Dennis Yates’ mocking voice drifted into the room. 

“Come on son, out of the closet.”

Dean walked out slowly to the sound of mocking laughter. Yates was waiting, a wry expression on his face and the Tweeds were flanking him; ready for action. Dean eyed them appraisingly and Yates read his mind. 

“Play nicely, Dean. You know they bite.”

The light in the wine cellar was more subdued and his eyes adjusted enough for him to check out the action. The place was lit entirely by candles and the smell of wax mixed with food was pungent in the air. A feast was laid out on long tables and Dean saw dozens of the distinctive Casa de la Cosecha bottles placed conspicuously amongst the bowls and platters. His stomach growled; even though he was nervous enough to puke.

A few curious revellers stood nearby, gawking at him. Groups of people were mingling in the cellar; talking, laughing and everybody was holding a glass of wine. Dean noticed movement off in the shadows of the cavernous room and did a fast double take. There were more people out there and he was certain they were copulating. His jaw dropped. 

“Really? A friggin’ orgy?”

Yates smiled. “Are you looking to gate crash?”

Dean shook his head. “That ain’t my idea of a good time.”

The room fell silent as the guests realised there was some entertainment on the table. They drifted towards him, staring at him like he was a piece of meat and Dean didn’t like it. Their age range was varied but the guys seemed a lot older than the chicks and wore finely-tailored suits in autumnal shades of gold, russet and burnt orange. The women were clad in slinky cocktail dresses and had vine leaves and pine cones braided into their hair. Every guest wore the distinctive ring on their pinky finger and Dean watched disdainfully. 

“This is the Dionysus fan club, huh? He must be real proud.”

Most of the women giggled and Dean couldn’t figure out why until he looked closer and recognised the dazed expressions on their faces. The same expression Destiny had habitually worn. It made him queasy and he eyed Yates with disgust.

“You jack up the chicks so you and your loser buddies can get laid?” 

“You’ve got it all wrong, Dean. I told you before, they like it this way.”

Dean snorted. “Do me a friggin’ favour.”

Right on cue, seemingly without bidding, one of the doped-up girls drifted across and put her hand on his chest. Dean was appalled, pushed her away and she looked at Yates imploringly. 

“He’s so pretty. Can I have him?”

Yates took her arm and steered her back into the crowd. “He’s reserved, honey. Find somebody else.”

She obeyed meekly and Dean felt an overwhelming sense of relief. For a moment he’d thought Yates had the ultimate humiliation lined up for him. He scanned the faces in the group surrounding him, at least fifty of them and found Destiny. She was staring at him blankly, not a flicker of recognition in her eyes and he shook his head in disbelief. There was really nothing else left to say. 

Yates clapped his hands briskly. “Okay folks, back to the revelry. The show starts in forty five minutes.”

Dean’s stomach twisted; now he knew exactly how much time he had left. He looked round the cellar, seeking some way out of this mess and the Tweeds reacted instantly. They drew pistols and pointed them at him. Dean smiled sourly. 

“You think I give a damn if I die in forty five minutes or right now?”

“They won’t kill you, Dean, but they’ll bring you an ocean of pain.” Yates sounded like he was explaining something to a small child. “I suggest you come quietly.”

He walked towards the doors with the Dionysus symbol carved into them and Dean followed hesitantly. The Tweeds were right behind and he felt the muzzle of a pistol pressed into his back, urging him forward. Yates threw the doors open and Dean pulled up short as he took in what he could only described as a full-on temple. 

It was about half the size of the wine cellar with the same high ceiling. The wall hangings and rugs were tones of orange, red, brown, green and gold and there were tapestries bearing various images of Dionysus in various guises. The room smelled of herbs; predominantly sage and like the cellar was lit entirely by candles. Under better circumstances Dean might have been impressed by the décor.

At the far end of the temple was a long, stone table. He figured it was an altar since it was draped with a russet cloth bearing Dionysus’ mark and there was magical-looking paraphernalia laid out on top. There was also a small selection of knives which looked like they belonged in a butcher’s shop. In front was an ornate chair, more like a throne with arms fashioned into cat’s paws and draped with garlands of vines and acorns. To either side of the altar was a pillar which ran from floor to ceiling. High up on each was a set of metal shackles, embedded in the stone. Dean pulled up short and whistled.

“Your set designer’s watched _way_ too much Hammer Horror.”

One of the Tweeds shoved him in the back and he stumbled. They grabbed him, steered him to the pillar on the left, yanked off his coat and locked his wrists into the cuffs. The restraints pulled his arms high above his head and Dean hadn’t realised the knife wound had stopped bleeding until the strained posture tore it open again. He glanced down at the widening stain on his shirt; it hurt some but that hardly mattered now.

Yates was sitting on the fancy chair, watching with a satisfied expression. Dean eyed the other pillar, the other set of cuffs. 

“His and hers, huh? Who’s the lucky lady?”

Yates smiled. “She’ll be here presently.”

Dean stared at him, horrified. Was there really some helpless girl involved here? How the hell was he supposed to save her when he couldn’t even save himself? 

“Is it Destiny? Is that why she got to…”

“… bang Dean Winchester as a final treat?” Yates barked out a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself; she was just following orders.”

The Tweeds sniggered and Dean felt his face burning. “Go to hell, all of you.”

Yates got to his feet. “We’ll give you some alone time, son. Try and put it to good use.”

He left the room, still chuckling. The Tweeds followed him out and the doors clicked shut softly. Dean went to war on the restraints; twisting and yanking at them until his wrists were bleeding but he couldn’t get free. Exhausted, he slumped forward, breathing hard. Inevitably his eyes were drawn back to the altar and the evil looking knives. They commanded his full attention.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam passed the town sign for Mount Vernon just after 11pm. He’d burned rubber the entire way from Rising Sun, gunning the Impala down the freeway at illegal speeds and abusing the old girl in ways that would give Dean a conniption fit. He made the journey in five and a half hours flat. Mount Vernon was in Posey County on the other side of Indiana; one of the state’s prime vine growing regions so it made sense that Pine House be located there. 

He’d called Castiel every hour and invariably gotten voicemail. He’d given the address of his destination every hour as well, imploring Cas to get his ass over there and locate Dean. The radio silence implied that wasn’t happening but he hadn’t given up hope. Cas had ways of surprising him when he was least expecting it. 

Bobby was on speakerphone constantly for the final leg of the trip, giving Sam directions like a super grouchy GPS system. Pine House was a few miles outside Mount Vernon and the road leading there didn’t get much use. It was full of potholes, flooded in places and didn’t seem to go anywhere. It wasn’t something you’d travel by accident but Bobby was confident it was leading _somewhere_. Sam drove for two miles, certain the Impala’s suspension was about to give out before finding the turnoff Bobby described. He’d never have spotted it if he hadn’t been looking. It resembled a hiker’s track leading into a forest but once he was on it, it turned into a narrow but well-kept road. Dense pine growth flanked it either side and it was dark as pitch. In spite of that Sam kept the headlights dipped, acutely aware that anybody keeping lookout would see him coming if he went to high beam. According to Bobby the road ran for a mile before reaching Pine House and he drove slow and careful. 

Sam’s head was spinning with the amount of information he’d taken in over the course of the journey. Once Pine House was established as the prime location, Bobby had gotten busy digging. He’d discovered the estate was owned by the Fitzgerald family, who bought discreet quantities of Casa de la Cosecha wine, which is how they’d shown up on Portland Wine Company’s client list. 

The family also owned several vineyards in Posey. By following an elaborate and well-disguised trail, Bobby established those vineyards grew a boutique, blended grape which was sold to a company called Ikarios Inc. He reminded Sam how Ikarios was an ancient Greek who taught Dionysus the art of wine making, so it came as no surprise to learn this company produced the Casa de la Cosecha garage wine. Dennis Yates was its controlling shareholder.

The Portland Wine Company was merely a distributor and one of their biggest clients was a company called Attika Wine. They bought the lion’s share of Casa de la Cosecha on a wholesale basis. It was registered out of state but its CEO was a certain Dennis Fitzgerald. 

It didn’t take much to figure out why the Fitzgeralds were buying back their own product from their own distributor; they wanted to limit supply, raise demand and create status for the brand. Once other buyers came to realise the scarcity of the product, they’d pay crazy money to get their hands on a bottle. Bobby suspected the Fitzgeralds were taking advantage of the sky high pricing and supplying direct to customers who couldn’t source from Portland. This was proven correct when he dug up evidence of Attika Wine selling its wholesale stock at top dollar prices. 

The fact Attika was a town in southern Greece which spawned the original Dionysus cult sealed the deal neatly. Everything seemed tied up with the obscenely wealthy Fitzgerald family, who liked to discreetly reference the god of wine.

At first Sam couldn’t understand why the family didn’t hold back supply from the get go, then realised greed was involved. Why stockpile a quality wine when you could sell the entire stash at hugely inflated prices? It was an elegant scam which depended on a consistently good grape supply. One bad harvest would be catastrophic for business and that’s exactly what happened back in May.

If there was a connection between an ancient god, ritual sacrifice and shady business deals Sam didn’t see it; not until Bobby called back with more intel. He’d discovered Pine House hosted regular black tie events for an exclusive club. The Minoan Wine Society met twice a month, its logo was the Dionysus symbol and its chairman was Dennis Yates. 

Sam whistled as the complex pieces fell into place. “So the wine club’s a front. They meet to blow smoke up Dionysus’ ass, keep him onside and keep the grapes growing. Just so they can make a shit load of money?”

Bobby snorted. “There’s other advantages to buddying up with the party god; drugs, booze and sex to name a few. I doubt they’re in it just to get rich.”

“How many bad harvests have they had, Bobby? How many blood sacrifices have gone down?”

“I’m working on it, son. In the meantime, let’s make sure the one tonight don’t happen.”

Sam belatedly made another connection. “Dennis Yates and Dennis Fitzgerald have got to be the same guy, right?”

“You think?”

Something wasn’t making sense to Sam. “How does Dean figure in all this? Joolz said they were luring someone special to Rising Sun, which was Dean, right? But why him?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Bobby spoke. “No clue, Sam. I’ll keep digging but don’t hold your breath.”

Sam found a turning point in the road and parked the Impala. He’d formed a basic plan on the drive over and gathered some items in a duffel bag. He was anticipating dealing with humans so he’d packed a pump action shotgun, a mace pistol, full-face breathing mask, a bunch of road flares and a tyre wrench. He had a switchblade and flashlight in his pockets and he stuck a pistol with a silencer down the back of his pants, just in case he met the dogs.

If Dionysus showed up things could get complicated. Bobby was eighty percent sure old gods could be weakened by mortal weapons, though not killed outright. Sam was putting a lot of faith in that. 

He left one final voicemail message for Cas; told him he’d reached Pine House and was going in alone. He explained that if the rescue mission went sideways, it was unlikely he’d see either Winchester in this life again. It sounded dramatic but might just be the motivation Cas needed; if it didn’t spur him into action, nothing would. Just as Sam was about to pocket the phone it rang, sounding loud as a church bell in the closed-in silence of the forest. He was expecting Bobby but Joolz McGuire’s ID popped up and the kid sounded anxious.

“You can’t go into that house, man. There’s a basement full of people and some of them have got guns. You need to call for backup and...”

Sam interrupted. “Slow down, Joolz. You’ve seen all this?”

“Damn straight. This Zippo’s lit up like the Fourth of July.”

Sam digested the information for a split second. “Dean’s in a basement?”

“It’s not exactly a basement but it’s underground. It’s full of bottles and there’s some kind of party going down.” Joolz’s voice dropped. “These wrinkly old dudes are making out with hot chicks and it’s grossing me out.”

Sam tried again. “Is Dean with them?”

“He’s in a room next door, some kind of weird-ass temple. That symbol you showed me is everywhere.”

Sam’s heart rate picked up. “Is he okay?”

Joolz hesitated. “He ain’t in great shape but he’s alive.”

Sam felt queasy; fought to keep it contained. “If you see anything else you text me okay? I’m putting the phone on mute.”

“You’re _still_ going in? After everything I told you?”

Sam put as much stern authority into his voice as he could muster. “Listen to me, this is a federal operation and I’ve got it covered. If you call the cops you’ll see the Marshals Service from a whole new angle, do you understand?”

Joolz wasn’t buying it. “You need somebody to watch your back, man. You can’t do it alone.”

“Thanks for the concern, Joolz; but I’ve got this.”

Sam disconnected and muted the phone. He slung the duffel across his shoulders and checked his watch. It was 11.20pm and Joolz had seen something bad going down at midnight. That gave him forty minutes to locate Dean. It didn’t seem long enough but at least he knew which part of the house to focus on now. He set off at a loping run; after three days sitting on his ass and worrying it felt good to be doing something physical. Half a mile later the house came into view and the size of it took his breath away. Light spilled from the ground floor windows while spotlights illuminated the wide gravel driveway and expansive lawns which sloped away to the forest. Desirable cars were parked up everywhere but the grounds appeared deserted. 

To get near the house without being seen meant staying inside the tree line. Sam began moving through the firs; quietly working his way round the perimeter and alert for dogs at all times. He moved quickly but it was 11.45 when he reached the back of the house. It was mostly in darkness, only a few windows lit and he made a fast dash across the lawn, taking cover in the shadow of the building. He scoured the walls for CCTV but couldn’t see any cameras. That didn’t mean they weren’t there though…

He peered through the lit up windows and saw a cavernous kitchen with catering staff wiping down surfaces. The next few revealed storerooms, a small office and a shabby rest area where two guys lounged on ratty couches and watched TV.

He crept along the wall until he found a section in darkness then used the tyre wrench to jemmy a window. He scrambled into a room which smelled of bleach and polish and, turning on the flashlight, discovered he was a janitor’s cupboard. He opened the door quietly and moved quietly along the dimly lit passage outside. There was cheap carpet on the floor, which muffled his footsteps and the space stank of microwaved food. Clearly every expense was spared for the workers at this country pile... 

Sam worked through a maze of corridors, looking for a way into the basement and soon found a set of stairs. He put his ear against the door at the bottom and listened hard. If there was a party going on inside it was the quietest in history so he opened the door a crack and peered through. 

The cavernous cellar was just as Joolz described; full of barrels, wine racks and bottles. The guests had been partying hard until recently; plates, bottles and glasses were strewn about, candles still burned but the place was deserted. Sam drew his gun and moved quietly through the shadows; alert for danger, ready for action and heading for the doors at the other end of the cellar. They bore the mark of Dionysus and Sam figured that’s where the ritual was going down. He checked his watch again and his pulse quickened. It was five minutes to midnight. 

He approached the doors cautiously, heard voices on the other side but couldn’t catch any of the dialogue. Sam’s gut told him he was in the right place though so he took cover behind some barrels, stuffed the pistol into his pants and unzipped the duffel. The plan was simple enough; he’d use the shotgun to draw attention and road flares to create panic. A few rounds of pepper spray would add to the confusion; clear out the cellar and in the chaos he’d locate Dean and get him clear. 

He was reaching for the flares when he heard a scrape behind him. He surged to his feet, fumbling for his pistol and found two men standing right behind him. They were large, pissed off and one of them aimed a punch at his face. Sam raised an arm to block it and the fist collided with his shoulder instead. The impact knocked him off balance; he stumbled against a barrel at the same moment something slammed into his head and Sam saw stars. 

A second later he hit the deck.


	15. Chapter 15

Dean watched the temple fill with people; he had little choice in the matter. There had to be close to seventy of them, talking in hushed voices and staring at him hungrily. Dean stared right back and kept his chin up, showing no fear. He’d given up trying to get free of the shackles; all he’d done was hurt himself and he was mostly resigned to his fate now. He just hoped it would be over quickly.

Dennis Yates was the last one through the doors and he closed them softly. For once he wasn’t flanked by his bodyguards and Dean looked round the sea of faces, seeking out the Tweeds. They weren’t present and he figured this crap was above their pay grade.

Yates approached the stone altar and the room fell quiet. The ceremony started without preamble and there was chanting and singing in a language Dean didn’t understand. He thought it might be Greek but at this stage in the proceedings, he honestly didn’t care. Sam would know, but Sam wasn’t here and Sammy most definitely wasn’t coming. Dean’s biggest regret was dying without seeing his brother; not getting the chance to apologise for being such a jerk last time they’d been together. That felt like a lifetime ago; in a galaxy far, far away.

Yates took a pewter bowl and began adding ingredients which included wine, honey, leaves and herbs. There was nothing sinister in the brew so far as Dean could tell, and nothing which currently required his blood. He watched Yates stir the concoction then light a match and drop it in. Thick, red smoke began belching from the bowl, accompanied by a sound like somebody pounding a gong. When it finally stopped Dean’s ears carried on ringing but he heard the rapturous intake of breath from everybody else in the room. As the smoke cleared he realised the throne in front of the altar was now occupied by a tanned, muscular youth with a blonde poodle perm. He was wearing a white tunic, sandals and a leopard skin was draped across his shoulders. There was a slender circlet of vines and acorns round his head and he was rocking full-on make up.

This had to be Dionysus and he looked like some frat boy got up for a toga party. He lounged in the chair nonchalantly, playing to the crowd and Dean sniggered. Dionysus glanced over at him then got casually to his feet. He approached in a leisurely, affected manner and Dean smirked.

“If you’re cruising for ass, you’re at the wrong party.”

Dionysus folded his arms and looked him up and down. “How’s business, Dean? Pretty restrained I’m guessing.”

Dean gave it his best poker face. “You wanna trade places?”

Dionysus licked his lips suggestively. His hand snaked out, brushed against Dean’s crotch but Dean didn’t move. He wasn’t going to give this asshole the satisfaction of watching him squirm.

“Save it for the gay bar, Priscilla.”

Dionysus snickered. “Come on cowboy, this _can’t_ be your first rodeo.”

The hand brushed him again, firmer this time and Dean glanced at the people in the room. They were watching raptly, some were getting off on it and he tried not to show his revulsion. 

“Steers and queers ain’t my thing, pal.”

Dionysus ran a finger down his chest. “You sure of that?”

“Touch me again, you’ll find out the hard way.”

“Promises, promises…” Dionysus giggled and turned to address his worshippers. “Are we liking this, people? Are we ready for some fun?”

There was laughter, applause and Dean snorted. “Why don’t you load up _Brokeback_ ; have ‘em jerk you off?”

That earned him a full-on bitch slap, hard enough to wrench his neck.

“Show some respect.” Dionysus sounded pissed and Dean pressed his advantage.

“ _Respect?_ I watched Lucifer gank your family, sweetheart and you know what? I enjoyed it. You old world morons talk big but when push comes to shove, it’s nothing but bullshit with bells on.”

The god was outright offended now but victory was short lived. Dionysus clicked his fingers and agonizing pain erupted in Dean’s chest; like his ribs were snapping and his heart was being crushed in a vice. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs and bright lights were popping behind his eyes. As quickly as it started it was over and he slumped against the pillar, breathing hard.

Dionysus murmured into his ear. “You want to revise that statement?”

“Uh… yeah.” Dean lifted his head with an effort. “How about go screw yourself?”

Dionysus smirked. “I’d rather screw _you;_ I think we'd all prefer that.”

The hand was back on Dean's crotch and he shrank against the pillar, face burning. From behind the altar, Dennis Yates coughed politely.

“It’s nearly time, my Lord.”

Dionysus was watching Dean intently; a smile pulled at his lips as he gave a light squeeze then dropped his hand. “Any last requests?”

His tone was mocking and Dean pulled himself upright, scowling. “I guess _Unchained Melody’s_ off the playlist?”

Dionysus snickered. “I can give you _Highway to Hell._ ”

“How about _Revenge is a Bitch…_ ”

Dionysus grabbed him by the throat and Dean’s head cracked against the pillar. “How about I cut your tongue out, you worm?”

Yates coughed again and Dionysus relaxed his grip. He composed himself for a moment, adjusted his hair then strolled back to the throne. Yates eyed him expectantly. 

“All we need now is our Prom Queen.”

“She’s close; I can hear her tippy toes on the flagstones...” Dionysus clapped his hands with delight. “Ah, here she comes.”

All Dean could feel was anguish for the woman about to die alongside him; regret he could do nothing to save her. But he was also fascinated; he wanted to know who she was. All eyes in the room were on the doors and there was a palpable air of expectation. Dean watched, heart racing as they opened and the Tweeds came in, dragging a limp body between them. It had long hair but most definitely wasn’t female. He knew who it was in a heartbeat.

“ _Sammy!_ ”

He yelled as loud as he could but Sam didn’t respond. Dean watched, horrified as the Tweeds chained his brother to the other pillar and the crowd murmured in appreciation. He glared at Yates.

“Leave him alone, you son of a bitch. It’s me you want. Take me.”

Yates seemed puzzled. “It was never _you_ , Dean; didn’t you realise that? You were the bait, son; it’s Sam we needed.”

Dean stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

“The spell packs more punch if the sacrifice is willing. Little brother here trotted along good as gold, just as we planned.”

Dean looked at Sam, hanging limp in the chains and his stomach twisted. “That ain’t my idea of willing.”

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Yates smirked. “Let’s not split hairs at this stage.”

Dean still didn’t get it; not all of it. “What was that crap you gave me about Hell?”

Yates shrugged. “You _would_ have served our purposes, if Sam here hadn’t made it. Blood sacrifice is blood sacrifice after all; it’s just that…”

Dionysus interrupted, sounding elated. “Lucifer’s Cage trumps Hell, baby.”

Sam moaned and it got Dean’s full attention. He watched his brother lift his head and look around, bleary and confused. He stared at Dean and frowned.

“What’s going on? You look terrible.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy; it’s gonna be okay.” Dean yanked at the shackles, oblivious to the pain from his abused wrists. He yelled at the room in general.

“If you hurt him I swear to God I’ll rip your friggin’ lungs out; every last one of you bastards.”

Dionysus waved a hand dismissively. “He’s boring me. Let’s skip to the good bit.”

Dean thought he’d seen every ghastly sight known to man, had always been certain he could handle any new atrocities which came his way. Nothing in his long experience prepared him for this, though. The idea of watching his brother die horribly, being powerless to stop it was the stuff of his worst nightmares. Forty years in Hell didn’t even come close. Dean felt numb; he gazed at Sam, fighting back tears as he tried to burn the final images of his living brother into his mind. He was so preoccupied he didn’t notice Yates come over and flinched when a hand touched his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t feel bad, Dean. Take comfort in the fact you’ve been of some use. Got the party started, so to speak.”

Something hard landed in his guts and knocked the wind out of him. It threw him off balance and he hung in the chains, trying to catch his breath. The blow was distracting, hurt more than it should but through the pain he heard Sam scream his name in agonised despair. Surprised and scared he got his legs under him, looking for whatever had panicked his brother. Sam was staring at him, eyes wide with shock and Dean looked down at himself. That’s when he saw the knife hilt protruding from his stomach.

His shirt was already soaked in blood and it was pooling round his feet. Everything was happening way too quickly and Dean knew he was in serious trouble. It didn’t bother him much though, it seemed distant and unimportant. The pain was mostly gone but there was a pounding in his ears; it kept time with his heartbeat and was becoming deafening. His vision was blurring, going dark but he got a last, fuzzy look at Sam, battling his shackles with tears streaming down his face. Dean’s awareness shrank to the size of a pinhead but he managed to choke out a few words.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”


	16. Chapter 16

Sam watched in horror as Dean’s head fell forward, blood running from his mouth and staining the front of his shirt. He looked lifeless, held upright only by the chains on his wrists. Sam screamed his name until his voice cracked but Dean was unconscious or worse. The puddle of blood on the floor below him was still widening, which meant his heart was still pumping; but nobody could survive a wound like that. 

Dennis Yates returned to the altar after sticking Dean but now he was back with an ornate golden bowl. He held it to Dean’s mouth, collecting the blood as it slowed to a trickle and Sam winced.

“You’ll pay for that, you sick bastard.”

His voice was hoarse and weak from yelling; Yates either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him. He took his position behind the altar and began adding ingredients to the bowl, intoning a complex spell as he did so. Sam saw hair, bone and various roots going in then Yates warmed the potion over a candle.

Sam’s head was throbbing and his vision was blurred. Mostly though, he felt numb. His brother was dead and unless some kind of miracle happened, damned quick, he was heading the same way. Dean always predicted they’d die bloody but this was worse than anything they’d imagined and for a moment Sam wished he hadn’t gotten his soul back. None of this would have troubled his old self; it would have registered only as a mildly worrying and inconvenient blip on his radar. That inability to feel emotion had its benefits but the old Sam wouldn’t have gone looking for Dean. The old Sam would have let his brother die alone and felt neither anguish nor loss. On balance, Sam figured he was better off complete and whole, however painful it might get. 

He tore his eyes away from Dean and focussed on the ridiculously camp dude lounging on the throne. This had to be Dionysus and he sat up straight as the potion in the bowl threw off white smoke and a strident, coppery odour. He looked both arrogant and expectant. The crowd of people in the room set up a low chant, in a language which sounded like Greek and the smoke changed colour to red. Sam felt the air get thick and heavy as the magic took hold, then Yates placed the bowl on the altar and picked up a serrated knife with an eight inch blade. 

Dionysus laughed merrily. “It’s show time, people.”

The chanting reached a crescendo as Yates approached and Sam struggled against the shackles; he knew it was useless but the instinct for survival just wouldn’t let go. He got a final look at Dean before Yates blocked his view. His brother was white as a sheet and had totally bled out; it knocked all the fight from him. 

“Dean…”

It came out more like a sob and Yates eyed him kindly. “You’ll be together soon enough, son.”

Grief turned to rage in a heartbeat and Sam spat on the floor. “We’ll both see you in Hell, you son of a bitch.”

Yates didn’t respond; his expression was blank as he raised the knife and Sam braced himself for impact and pain. He closed his eyes, murmured a brief prayer and nearly jumped out of his skin when the doors of the temple crashed open with force enough to splinter wood and rupture hinges. The chanting stopped abruptly and some of the worshippers screamed. Sam opened his eyes in a rush to discover Castiel standing before them; dreadful and forbidding in full-on power and glory mode. Candle light threw his colossal wings into relief on the walls and his presence dominated the room absolutely. His gaze roved round the temple, lingered on Sam for a moment and came to rest on Dean. If he looked imposing before, now he was monumentally pissed. Yates howled with pain and dropped the knife on the floor with a clang. Its hilt was glowing white.

The doors slammed shut of their own accord as Cas strode through the temple; the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. He stopped in front of Dionysus, who had lost the majority of his swagger.

“Dionysus.” His tone was flat but accusing and Dionysus scrambled to his feet. 

“Castiel? Oh crap.”

Castiel cocked his head to one side. “I remember what you did to Pentheus. I liked Pentheus...”

Dionysus looked about to shit himself and he glanced at his worshippers briefly. “Sorry to be a party pooper, but the sitter’s on overtime. Catch you on the flipside.”

Cas stared at him. “You can’t hide from me; you know that.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying….” 

The god vanished in a puff of red smoke and Cas turned to face the room. He made a gesture in Sam’s direction and the shackles on his wrists snapped open. Unprepared for freedom he staggered and almost lost his balance as Cas gestured at the other pillar. With nothing to support him Dean dropped to the floor with a thud, limp as a rag doll.

Sam raced over to him, almost skidding in the pool of blood. He fell to his knees and pulled his brother close, cradling him close against his body. He could feel the warmth of Dean’s blood soaking his shirt and clutched him tighter, trying to catch a heartbeat. He couldn’t feel one.

Something brushed his shoulder and he looked up with a start. Cas was beside him and his expression was terrifying. He was working up to something of Biblically epic proportions.

“Cover your eyes.”

Sam felt a subsonic rumble, the temple floor shuddered and most of the candles blew out, plunging the room into near darkness. He laid Dean gently on the floor and threw himself across his brother, face down, shielding them both from whatever was coming. He closed his eyes when the whole room began to shake. Things were breaking and people were screaming in pain and terror. A roaring started in his ears and pressure built inside his head as the screaming intensified. Just as he thought his skull was about to burst everything went dead quiet; as silent as the grave but Sam didn’t move. He clung to Dean’s lifeless body; shell shocked and heartbroken until Cas’s voice came from above him, stern and commanding.

“Let me see him.”

Sam moved away reluctantly and stared at the devastated room. The altar lay in ruins, there were wide, jagged cracks across the floor, walls and ceiling and it was a miracle in itself that the place was still standing. It was empty but, by the feeble light of the few candles still burning, he noticed a body with its eyes burned out. It was Dennis Yates and Sam didn’t feel a single drop of remorse. The fucker had gotten exactly what he deserved.

Cas squatted beside Dean and put a finger on his forehead. “I advise you not to watch this, Sam.”

Sam threw an arm across his eyes as intense white light filled the room. When it eventually dimmed he looked at Dean anxiously, heart pounding; hardly daring to hope. His brother was still limp on the floor but the blood was gone. His clothes were clean; the bruises on his face and gashes on his wrists healed and he looked like he was sleeping. He seemed at peace for probably the first time in his life but he wasn’t moving. Tears welled in Sam’s eyes as he knelt beside his brother and touched his face. Dean was cold as a glacier and Sam looked at Cas in despair

“You were too late.”

Cas shook his head slightly. “He’s had a shock. Give him time.”

Sam turned back to Dean and shook him gently. “Come on man, wake up. It’s all over.”

It took another five minutes of shaking and encouragement before he got a response. Dean shuddered and jerked then mumbled something incoherent. A moment later he opened his eyes. He was groggy, confused but then his vision snapped into focus and he stared at Sam’s tear-streaked face. A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. 

“They weren’t kidding about the Prom Queen.”

Sam was so relieved he laughed out loud. 

“What you blubbing about, Sammy?”

Sam shook his head helplessly; where did he even begin to explain? Dean’s gaze shifted; he stared at the blood on Sam’s shirt then sat up fast. 

“What the hell? What did those bastards do to you?”

Sam smiled gently. “It was you got hurt, Dean. They nearly killed you.”

Cas interjected. “That’s incorrect. Dean was technically…”

Sam cut him off quickly. Dean didn’t need to hear this right now. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

Cas nodded, though he clearly didn’t understand the need to delay that particular conversation. Dean was frowning as he pulled up his shirt and inspected himself for injury. He was clean as a whistle. Bewilderment gave way to understanding as he took in the ruined temple and Yates’ defiled body. Finally he looked at Cas; his expression inscrutable.

“Guess I owe you… Again.”

Cas deadpanned it beautifully. “You’re welcome... Again.”

Sarcasm from an angel; Sam was almost impressed. Dean tried to get up but he was exhausted and unsteady. When Sam tried to help, stubborn bastard that he was Dean pushed him away. Exasperated, Sam grabbed him by his shirt, hauled him upright then on impulse pulled him into a tight bear hug. This time he felt a strong heartbeat and his tears flowed freely. Dean hesitated for a moment then hugged back weakly. Sam didn’t let go until his brother grunted and squirmed. 

“Get off me, man. You’re crushing my ribs.”

Sam released him and stepped back, wiping his face. “I missed you, Dean.”

“Pussy.” Dean stared at the body of Dennis Yates and poked it with his boot. “This bastard had it coming. What happened to the others?”

“I thought their priorities needed adjusting. Some re-programming is in order.”

Cas sounded evasive and Dean snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.”

He paused for a moment, considering something. His eyes flicked back and forth between Sam and Castiel. 

“Don’t get me wrong, guys; I’m glad you’re here… But what took you so friggin’ long?”


	17. Chapter 17

Sam gunned the Impala down the highway, putting Pine House firmly in the rear view. He was heading back to Rising Sun since they’d left most of their stuff in the motel room and didn’t have the funds to replace it. Dean was subdued and quiet, slumped against the passenger door as he watched the high beams skate across the blacktop. He hadn’t protested when Sam took the wheel and didn’t respond when Sam filled him in on Dennis Yates and the wine scam. He wasn’t sure Dean was even listening but kept going anyway; his own voice was better than brooding silence.

“All those newspaper reports we read, that whole Joolz McGuire deal had one purpose. Lure us to Indiana and offer us to Dionysus like pigs on a platter. Thank god for Cas; right? He really saved our bacon.”

He laughed at the unintentional pun. Dean was silent and Sam glanced across. “You okay?”

Dean didn’t take his eyes off the road. “You know me; rubber ball.”

Sam wasn’t buying it. He knew Dean’s recent ordeal was eating him up; his body language was telegraphing it on all frequencies. He also knew his brother would never share willingly; not without the belly full of booze which would also make him hostile and incoherent. Sam gave it a shot anyway. 

“What did they do to you back there? I mean, I got some of it from Joolz and it sounded pretty nasty.”

Dean shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“What?” Sam’s jaw dropped with incredulity. “When I saw you chained to that pillar you looked half dead. That was _before_ they stuck you with a friggin’ butcher’s knife.”

“Dying’s not such a big deal these days.” Dean sounded bone weary. 

“Only for the ones left behind, remember?” 

Sam just about managed to keep the accusation from his voice. When Dean didn’t respond he fought down a pang of irritation. He wasn’t going to fight; not when his brother’s presence in the car was, quite literally, a gift from heaven. Anger he could handle; guilt was another matter entirely.

“If you’d died tonight it would’ve been on me.”

Dean frowned at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

“I couldn’t find you, Dean. All the knowledge we’ve built up; the books, technology, Dad’s journal, Bobby, the last six years… Even with all that I couldn’t _find_ you. Do we really need an angel to guide us through every hairpin ‘cause it sure as hell feels like it these days...”

Dean put a hand on his shoulder, his emotionally-retarded way of showing support. “You found me. Cut it little fine but…”

“I walked into a trap.” Anxiety and self-doubt made Sam’s voice uneven. “We’re so used to tangling with demons, angels, all the monster crap; we forget how friggin’ _conniving_ ordinary people can get. We need to be better than that.”

“They full on _Wicker Man’d_ us, Sammy. Don’t beat yourself up.”

They drove in silence for a while. Sam thought Dean was sleeping and was surprised when he picked up the conversation ten miles later.

“That Joolz kid’s on the level?”

“It was Joolz made your twenty.” Sam’s stomach twisted; his indecision there had helped to extend Dean’s suffering. “I wish to God I’d just talked to him in the first place.”

“Can we use him again?”

Sam snorted. “We’ve got a friend for life there, though he thinks he’s working for the Marshals Service.”

Dean sighed heavily. “If that’s off the To Do list, how about we blow this state? Keep driving…”

The sentence tailed off and the silence stretched out. Sam glanced over. “To where, dude?”

Dean was gazing up at the clear night sky. “Second star to the right, straight on till morning.”

Sam was concerned; he wasn’t used to seeing his brother so beaten down. Dean should be spitting mad and looking for payback. “You don’t want to find those bastards who jumped you in the parking lot? I sure as hell do.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m tired, Sammy. This crap’s wearing me out, a piece at a time. Is a little shore leave too much to ask for?”

Sam knew it was but kept it to himself. It was another three miles before Dean spoke again. 

“What happened to Cas?”

“He took off; said something about finding Dionysus once he’d investigated the Indiana hay situation.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, almost cracked a smile but his only response was a non-committal grunt. He was in a bleak place and Sam didn’t know how to reach him; not without a bottle of Johnny Walker…

“I know it gets dark, Dean; believe me, I know. I’m here for you, man; any time you need to talk…”

He pulled up short; he was only treading ground they’d been over a hundred times before and it was futile. Dean would never open up about his feelings and right now he wasn’t even listening. Sam tried a more antagonistic approach. 

“It should have been me who died tonight.”

It got the required reaction. Dean looked over sharply and his voice was a low, pissed off growl. “Don’t say that. Don’t you _ever_ say that...”

Sam glared right back. “Why not? Why does your life have to be worth less than everyone else’s? You need to start giving a crap about yourself, man, or I swear to God I’ll…”

Dean interrupted; he sounded bored. “Save the sermons for Sunday.”

“Fuck you, Dean.” Sam was frustrated, angry and he didn’t care if it showed. “I’d offer my life for yours; every damned time. You might as well accept it because it’s the truth and it isn’t going anywhere.”

Dean glowered at him, his expression stony. “Not on my watch.”

Sam had plenty more to say but the Impala chose that moment to misfire. He eyed Dean expectantly, waiting for the meltdown but his brother barely seemed to notice. He lay is head against the window and closed his eyes. 

“Awesome.”

 

FIN


End file.
